id
stringlengths 6
7
| context_id
stringclasses 560
values | question_id
stringclasses 29
values | domain
stringclasses 4
values | metadata
dict | context
stringclasses 560
values | question
stringlengths 3
185
| question_type
stringclasses 9
values | answers
sequencelengths 4
4
| correct_answer_id
int32 0
3
|
|---|---|---|---|---|---|---|---|---|---|
f059_10 | f059 | 10 | fiction | {
"author": "Shelby Davis",
"title": "Death and Mumbling",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/davissother09This_Is_Not_The_End/0.html"
} | I thought I might get some good ideas if I went down to the hospital.
I always have stayed away from hospitals. People died or were born. But now I thought I might get some idea if I went down to where it was all happening, the being born and the dying. Mostly the dying. It was the dying that interested me.
I sat on a bench in a sort of waiting room. I wanted to call it a green room; it wasn't a place where the patients would wait to be called by the doctor; it was a place where the relatives would wait while the patient was in their room. It had a coffee bar, and comfortable couches, with trendy, muted colors on the walls and floor. Everything was clean and modern without being cold, a homogenized balancing act designed to keep everyone calm during their stressful time. It was a green room; patients were "guests"; their families were "guests" as well. Here was where the families would sit and be feted while they waited to be called out to perform, to smile and encourage or to don faces of appropriate mournfulness. The old ones would put on smiles, the young ones would look sad.
I think I went there because it seemed to me that it was the place richest in emotional impact. It reeked of spent emotions, and the emotions were made all the stronger, here in the green room, by the efforts at suppression--the muted walls and gourmet coffees and scones, the overstuffed loveseats and couches, as if those in grief should not be permitted to sit on benches or folding chairs. It absolutely reeked of hush and hidden feeling. It was worse than a church. It was worse than a highschool hallway. It was more universal, more basic, something even the children could comprehend. | What did the narrator conclude about the green room. | Factual | [
"not enough information",
"It had the best coffee and scones",
"It had appropriate design",
"It was full of feelings"
] | 3 |
f059_11 | f059 | 11 | fiction | {
"author": "Shelby Davis",
"title": "Death and Mumbling",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/davissother09This_Is_Not_The_End/0.html"
} | I thought I might get some good ideas if I went down to the hospital.
I always have stayed away from hospitals. People died or were born. But now I thought I might get some idea if I went down to where it was all happening, the being born and the dying. Mostly the dying. It was the dying that interested me.
I sat on a bench in a sort of waiting room. I wanted to call it a green room; it wasn't a place where the patients would wait to be called by the doctor; it was a place where the relatives would wait while the patient was in their room. It had a coffee bar, and comfortable couches, with trendy, muted colors on the walls and floor. Everything was clean and modern without being cold, a homogenized balancing act designed to keep everyone calm during their stressful time. It was a green room; patients were "guests"; their families were "guests" as well. Here was where the families would sit and be feted while they waited to be called out to perform, to smile and encourage or to don faces of appropriate mournfulness. The old ones would put on smiles, the young ones would look sad.
I think I went there because it seemed to me that it was the place richest in emotional impact. It reeked of spent emotions, and the emotions were made all the stronger, here in the green room, by the efforts at suppression--the muted walls and gourmet coffees and scones, the overstuffed loveseats and couches, as if those in grief should not be permitted to sit on benches or folding chairs. It absolutely reeked of hush and hidden feeling. It was worse than a church. It was worse than a highschool hallway. It was more universal, more basic, something even the children could comprehend. | What is can be inferred about the author? | Entity_properties | [
"They are not emotionally intelligent",
"They are emotionally intelligent",
"They are intellectually intelligent",
"not enough information"
] | 1 |
f059_12 | f059 | 12 | fiction | {
"author": "Shelby Davis",
"title": "Death and Mumbling",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/davissother09This_Is_Not_The_End/0.html"
} | I thought I might get some good ideas if I went down to the hospital.
I always have stayed away from hospitals. People died or were born. But now I thought I might get some idea if I went down to where it was all happening, the being born and the dying. Mostly the dying. It was the dying that interested me.
I sat on a bench in a sort of waiting room. I wanted to call it a green room; it wasn't a place where the patients would wait to be called by the doctor; it was a place where the relatives would wait while the patient was in their room. It had a coffee bar, and comfortable couches, with trendy, muted colors on the walls and floor. Everything was clean and modern without being cold, a homogenized balancing act designed to keep everyone calm during their stressful time. It was a green room; patients were "guests"; their families were "guests" as well. Here was where the families would sit and be feted while they waited to be called out to perform, to smile and encourage or to don faces of appropriate mournfulness. The old ones would put on smiles, the young ones would look sad.
I think I went there because it seemed to me that it was the place richest in emotional impact. It reeked of spent emotions, and the emotions were made all the stronger, here in the green room, by the efforts at suppression--the muted walls and gourmet coffees and scones, the overstuffed loveseats and couches, as if those in grief should not be permitted to sit on benches or folding chairs. It absolutely reeked of hush and hidden feeling. It was worse than a church. It was worse than a highschool hallway. It was more universal, more basic, something even the children could comprehend. | The author probably stayed in the waiting room for: | Event_duration | [
"several hours",
"not enough information",
"a few weeks",
"several minutes"
] | 0 |
f059_13 | f059 | 13 | fiction | {
"author": "Shelby Davis",
"title": "Death and Mumbling",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/davissother09This_Is_Not_The_End/0.html"
} | I thought I might get some good ideas if I went down to the hospital.
I always have stayed away from hospitals. People died or were born. But now I thought I might get some idea if I went down to where it was all happening, the being born and the dying. Mostly the dying. It was the dying that interested me.
I sat on a bench in a sort of waiting room. I wanted to call it a green room; it wasn't a place where the patients would wait to be called by the doctor; it was a place where the relatives would wait while the patient was in their room. It had a coffee bar, and comfortable couches, with trendy, muted colors on the walls and floor. Everything was clean and modern without being cold, a homogenized balancing act designed to keep everyone calm during their stressful time. It was a green room; patients were "guests"; their families were "guests" as well. Here was where the families would sit and be feted while they waited to be called out to perform, to smile and encourage or to don faces of appropriate mournfulness. The old ones would put on smiles, the young ones would look sad.
I think I went there because it seemed to me that it was the place richest in emotional impact. It reeked of spent emotions, and the emotions were made all the stronger, here in the green room, by the efforts at suppression--the muted walls and gourmet coffees and scones, the overstuffed loveseats and couches, as if those in grief should not be permitted to sit on benches or folding chairs. It absolutely reeked of hush and hidden feeling. It was worse than a church. It was worse than a highschool hallway. It was more universal, more basic, something even the children could comprehend. | What is going on with some of the patients who have relatives waiting for them in the green room? | Unanswerable | [
"not enough information",
"The patients are having spine surgery.",
"The patients are having heart surgery.",
"The patients are having brain surgery"
] | 0 |
f059_14 | f059 | 14 | fiction | {
"author": "Shelby Davis",
"title": "Death and Mumbling",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/davissother09This_Is_Not_The_End/0.html"
} | I thought I might get some good ideas if I went down to the hospital.
I always have stayed away from hospitals. People died or were born. But now I thought I might get some idea if I went down to where it was all happening, the being born and the dying. Mostly the dying. It was the dying that interested me.
I sat on a bench in a sort of waiting room. I wanted to call it a green room; it wasn't a place where the patients would wait to be called by the doctor; it was a place where the relatives would wait while the patient was in their room. It had a coffee bar, and comfortable couches, with trendy, muted colors on the walls and floor. Everything was clean and modern without being cold, a homogenized balancing act designed to keep everyone calm during their stressful time. It was a green room; patients were "guests"; their families were "guests" as well. Here was where the families would sit and be feted while they waited to be called out to perform, to smile and encourage or to don faces of appropriate mournfulness. The old ones would put on smiles, the young ones would look sad.
I think I went there because it seemed to me that it was the place richest in emotional impact. It reeked of spent emotions, and the emotions were made all the stronger, here in the green room, by the efforts at suppression--the muted walls and gourmet coffees and scones, the overstuffed loveseats and couches, as if those in grief should not be permitted to sit on benches or folding chairs. It absolutely reeked of hush and hidden feeling. It was worse than a church. It was worse than a highschool hallway. It was more universal, more basic, something even the children could comprehend. | What is the state of the "guests" leaving the green room? | Subsequent_state | [
"They are all sad",
"not enough information",
"Some are happy, some are sad",
"They are all happy"
] | 2 |
f059_15 | f059 | 15 | fiction | {
"author": "Shelby Davis",
"title": "Death and Mumbling",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/davissother09This_Is_Not_The_End/0.html"
} | I thought I might get some good ideas if I went down to the hospital.
I always have stayed away from hospitals. People died or were born. But now I thought I might get some idea if I went down to where it was all happening, the being born and the dying. Mostly the dying. It was the dying that interested me.
I sat on a bench in a sort of waiting room. I wanted to call it a green room; it wasn't a place where the patients would wait to be called by the doctor; it was a place where the relatives would wait while the patient was in their room. It had a coffee bar, and comfortable couches, with trendy, muted colors on the walls and floor. Everything was clean and modern without being cold, a homogenized balancing act designed to keep everyone calm during their stressful time. It was a green room; patients were "guests"; their families were "guests" as well. Here was where the families would sit and be feted while they waited to be called out to perform, to smile and encourage or to don faces of appropriate mournfulness. The old ones would put on smiles, the young ones would look sad.
I think I went there because it seemed to me that it was the place richest in emotional impact. It reeked of spent emotions, and the emotions were made all the stronger, here in the green room, by the efforts at suppression--the muted walls and gourmet coffees and scones, the overstuffed loveseats and couches, as if those in grief should not be permitted to sit on benches or folding chairs. It absolutely reeked of hush and hidden feeling. It was worse than a church. It was worse than a highschool hallway. It was more universal, more basic, something even the children could comprehend. | When did the author see the coffee bar? | Temporal_order | [
"Before walking into the green room",
"not enough information",
"After walking into the green room",
"Before deciding to go to the hospital"
] | 2 |
f059_16 | f059 | 16 | fiction | {
"author": "Shelby Davis",
"title": "Death and Mumbling",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/davissother09This_Is_Not_The_End/0.html"
} | I thought I might get some good ideas if I went down to the hospital.
I always have stayed away from hospitals. People died or were born. But now I thought I might get some idea if I went down to where it was all happening, the being born and the dying. Mostly the dying. It was the dying that interested me.
I sat on a bench in a sort of waiting room. I wanted to call it a green room; it wasn't a place where the patients would wait to be called by the doctor; it was a place where the relatives would wait while the patient was in their room. It had a coffee bar, and comfortable couches, with trendy, muted colors on the walls and floor. Everything was clean and modern without being cold, a homogenized balancing act designed to keep everyone calm during their stressful time. It was a green room; patients were "guests"; their families were "guests" as well. Here was where the families would sit and be feted while they waited to be called out to perform, to smile and encourage or to don faces of appropriate mournfulness. The old ones would put on smiles, the young ones would look sad.
I think I went there because it seemed to me that it was the place richest in emotional impact. It reeked of spent emotions, and the emotions were made all the stronger, here in the green room, by the efforts at suppression--the muted walls and gourmet coffees and scones, the overstuffed loveseats and couches, as if those in grief should not be permitted to sit on benches or folding chairs. It absolutely reeked of hush and hidden feeling. It was worse than a church. It was worse than a highschool hallway. It was more universal, more basic, something even the children could comprehend. | The author believes that the efforts of suppression in the waiting room | Belief_states | [
"worked as intended",
"worked in the opposite way they were intended",
"not enough information",
"worked, but not very well"
] | 1 |
f059_17 | f059 | 17 | fiction | {
"author": "Shelby Davis",
"title": "Death and Mumbling",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/davissother09This_Is_Not_The_End/0.html"
} | I thought I might get some good ideas if I went down to the hospital.
I always have stayed away from hospitals. People died or were born. But now I thought I might get some idea if I went down to where it was all happening, the being born and the dying. Mostly the dying. It was the dying that interested me.
I sat on a bench in a sort of waiting room. I wanted to call it a green room; it wasn't a place where the patients would wait to be called by the doctor; it was a place where the relatives would wait while the patient was in their room. It had a coffee bar, and comfortable couches, with trendy, muted colors on the walls and floor. Everything was clean and modern without being cold, a homogenized balancing act designed to keep everyone calm during their stressful time. It was a green room; patients were "guests"; their families were "guests" as well. Here was where the families would sit and be feted while they waited to be called out to perform, to smile and encourage or to don faces of appropriate mournfulness. The old ones would put on smiles, the young ones would look sad.
I think I went there because it seemed to me that it was the place richest in emotional impact. It reeked of spent emotions, and the emotions were made all the stronger, here in the green room, by the efforts at suppression--the muted walls and gourmet coffees and scones, the overstuffed loveseats and couches, as if those in grief should not be permitted to sit on benches or folding chairs. It absolutely reeked of hush and hidden feeling. It was worse than a church. It was worse than a highschool hallway. It was more universal, more basic, something even the children could comprehend. | What does the author see after he goes into the green room? | Factual | [
"Relatives waiting for patients.",
"Trendy muted colors on the walls and floor.",
"A coffee bar and comfortable couches.",
"not enough information"
] | 2 |
f059_18 | f059 | 18 | fiction | {
"author": "Shelby Davis",
"title": "Death and Mumbling",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/davissother09This_Is_Not_The_End/0.html"
} | I thought I might get some good ideas if I went down to the hospital.
I always have stayed away from hospitals. People died or were born. But now I thought I might get some idea if I went down to where it was all happening, the being born and the dying. Mostly the dying. It was the dying that interested me.
I sat on a bench in a sort of waiting room. I wanted to call it a green room; it wasn't a place where the patients would wait to be called by the doctor; it was a place where the relatives would wait while the patient was in their room. It had a coffee bar, and comfortable couches, with trendy, muted colors on the walls and floor. Everything was clean and modern without being cold, a homogenized balancing act designed to keep everyone calm during their stressful time. It was a green room; patients were "guests"; their families were "guests" as well. Here was where the families would sit and be feted while they waited to be called out to perform, to smile and encourage or to don faces of appropriate mournfulness. The old ones would put on smiles, the young ones would look sad.
I think I went there because it seemed to me that it was the place richest in emotional impact. It reeked of spent emotions, and the emotions were made all the stronger, here in the green room, by the efforts at suppression--the muted walls and gourmet coffees and scones, the overstuffed loveseats and couches, as if those in grief should not be permitted to sit on benches or folding chairs. It absolutely reeked of hush and hidden feeling. It was worse than a church. It was worse than a highschool hallway. It was more universal, more basic, something even the children could comprehend. | What state of mind is the narrator probably in as he leaves the hospital? | Subsequent_state | [
"Somberness",
"not enough information",
"Happiness",
"Grief"
] | 0 |
f059_19 | f059 | 19 | fiction | {
"author": "Shelby Davis",
"title": "Death and Mumbling",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/davissother09This_Is_Not_The_End/0.html"
} | I thought I might get some good ideas if I went down to the hospital.
I always have stayed away from hospitals. People died or were born. But now I thought I might get some idea if I went down to where it was all happening, the being born and the dying. Mostly the dying. It was the dying that interested me.
I sat on a bench in a sort of waiting room. I wanted to call it a green room; it wasn't a place where the patients would wait to be called by the doctor; it was a place where the relatives would wait while the patient was in their room. It had a coffee bar, and comfortable couches, with trendy, muted colors on the walls and floor. Everything was clean and modern without being cold, a homogenized balancing act designed to keep everyone calm during their stressful time. It was a green room; patients were "guests"; their families were "guests" as well. Here was where the families would sit and be feted while they waited to be called out to perform, to smile and encourage or to don faces of appropriate mournfulness. The old ones would put on smiles, the young ones would look sad.
I think I went there because it seemed to me that it was the place richest in emotional impact. It reeked of spent emotions, and the emotions were made all the stronger, here in the green room, by the efforts at suppression--the muted walls and gourmet coffees and scones, the overstuffed loveseats and couches, as if those in grief should not be permitted to sit on benches or folding chairs. It absolutely reeked of hush and hidden feeling. It was worse than a church. It was worse than a highschool hallway. It was more universal, more basic, something even the children could comprehend. | What tone does the author most closely express in this text | Factual | [
"not enough information",
"Happiness",
"Somberness",
"Grief"
] | 2 |
f059_20 | f059 | 20 | fiction | {
"author": "Shelby Davis",
"title": "Death and Mumbling",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/davissother09This_Is_Not_The_End/0.html"
} | I thought I might get some good ideas if I went down to the hospital.
I always have stayed away from hospitals. People died or were born. But now I thought I might get some idea if I went down to where it was all happening, the being born and the dying. Mostly the dying. It was the dying that interested me.
I sat on a bench in a sort of waiting room. I wanted to call it a green room; it wasn't a place where the patients would wait to be called by the doctor; it was a place where the relatives would wait while the patient was in their room. It had a coffee bar, and comfortable couches, with trendy, muted colors on the walls and floor. Everything was clean and modern without being cold, a homogenized balancing act designed to keep everyone calm during their stressful time. It was a green room; patients were "guests"; their families were "guests" as well. Here was where the families would sit and be feted while they waited to be called out to perform, to smile and encourage or to don faces of appropriate mournfulness. The old ones would put on smiles, the young ones would look sad.
I think I went there because it seemed to me that it was the place richest in emotional impact. It reeked of spent emotions, and the emotions were made all the stronger, here in the green room, by the efforts at suppression--the muted walls and gourmet coffees and scones, the overstuffed loveseats and couches, as if those in grief should not be permitted to sit on benches or folding chairs. It absolutely reeked of hush and hidden feeling. It was worse than a church. It was worse than a highschool hallway. It was more universal, more basic, something even the children could comprehend. | Why does the narrator need ideas? | Entity_properties | [
"The narrator is a writer who is trying to get ideas for a story.",
"not enough information",
"The narrator is a police officer who is investigating a murder.",
"The narrator is a painter who needs ideas for a painting."
] | 0 |
f060_0 | f060 | 0 | fiction | {
"author": "Shelby Davis",
"title": "Insect",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/davissother09This_Is_Not_The_End/0.html"
} | I frankly haven't the slightest idea what the difference is between a moka pot and a cafetiere, but I'm going to pretend I do.
"Delicious," I say, setting down my cup. "Way better than that stuff you get at Starbucks."
Everyone else nods their heads in agreement, but I can't help but wonder if they're just being polite. Jason is pouring cream into his cup with a practiced hand, letting the white stream fall from the pitcher's lip in a smooth and slender column that blooms across his coffee's surface like a carnivorous plant photographed in stop-motion.
"Did you hear about Tibet?" he asks.
"Yeah," I say, "Terrible."
"What's really shocking," says my boss, "is the complete ignorance of, well, most of America about what's going on right now."
"Terrible." chimes in Jason. "and what with the death of newspapers, soon practically no one will be able to easily come by a well-formed opinion."
"Did you hear the New York Times might be going bankrupt?" my boss asks.
"Now that," Jason says, draining his cup, "would be a tragedy."
Our biscotti has arrived and I'm reluctant to take the first piece. Is Dr. Burns paying again? It makes me feel awkward, because and despite the fact that she paid the last time--and this was at her invitation. Jason, for all his savior faire, did not appear to know how a Turkish coffee tasting was really supposed to go last time, and did not question when Dr. Burns ordered for all of us. Tracy, similarly, followed the doctor's lead and silently acquiesced when she took the check from the waiter dressed in a vest and what I took be MC Hammer pants. At any rate, it's not too weird for the boss to pay, right? After last time, I had gone home and dug out a 1984 copy of Emily Post, but that wasn't much help. There was no heading for "Research Assistants" nor did I find a chapter on "Student/Professor Luncheons." | What did I wonder? | Belief_states | [
"not enough information",
"who is going to eat two biscottis",
"what is going on in Tibet",
"if everyone else is just being polite."
] | 3 |
f060_1 | f060 | 1 | fiction | {
"author": "Shelby Davis",
"title": "Insect",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/davissother09This_Is_Not_The_End/0.html"
} | I frankly haven't the slightest idea what the difference is between a moka pot and a cafetiere, but I'm going to pretend I do.
"Delicious," I say, setting down my cup. "Way better than that stuff you get at Starbucks."
Everyone else nods their heads in agreement, but I can't help but wonder if they're just being polite. Jason is pouring cream into his cup with a practiced hand, letting the white stream fall from the pitcher's lip in a smooth and slender column that blooms across his coffee's surface like a carnivorous plant photographed in stop-motion.
"Did you hear about Tibet?" he asks.
"Yeah," I say, "Terrible."
"What's really shocking," says my boss, "is the complete ignorance of, well, most of America about what's going on right now."
"Terrible." chimes in Jason. "and what with the death of newspapers, soon practically no one will be able to easily come by a well-formed opinion."
"Did you hear the New York Times might be going bankrupt?" my boss asks.
"Now that," Jason says, draining his cup, "would be a tragedy."
Our biscotti has arrived and I'm reluctant to take the first piece. Is Dr. Burns paying again? It makes me feel awkward, because and despite the fact that she paid the last time--and this was at her invitation. Jason, for all his savior faire, did not appear to know how a Turkish coffee tasting was really supposed to go last time, and did not question when Dr. Burns ordered for all of us. Tracy, similarly, followed the doctor's lead and silently acquiesced when she took the check from the waiter dressed in a vest and what I took be MC Hammer pants. At any rate, it's not too weird for the boss to pay, right? After last time, I had gone home and dug out a 1984 copy of Emily Post, but that wasn't much help. There was no heading for "Research Assistants" nor did I find a chapter on "Student/Professor Luncheons." | Why does the main character not want to take the first piece of the biscotti? | Causality | [
"He/she felt sick",
"not enough information",
"He/she felt awkward",
"He/she was no longer hungry"
] | 2 |
f060_2 | f060 | 2 | fiction | {
"author": "Shelby Davis",
"title": "Insect",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/davissother09This_Is_Not_The_End/0.html"
} | I frankly haven't the slightest idea what the difference is between a moka pot and a cafetiere, but I'm going to pretend I do.
"Delicious," I say, setting down my cup. "Way better than that stuff you get at Starbucks."
Everyone else nods their heads in agreement, but I can't help but wonder if they're just being polite. Jason is pouring cream into his cup with a practiced hand, letting the white stream fall from the pitcher's lip in a smooth and slender column that blooms across his coffee's surface like a carnivorous plant photographed in stop-motion.
"Did you hear about Tibet?" he asks.
"Yeah," I say, "Terrible."
"What's really shocking," says my boss, "is the complete ignorance of, well, most of America about what's going on right now."
"Terrible." chimes in Jason. "and what with the death of newspapers, soon practically no one will be able to easily come by a well-formed opinion."
"Did you hear the New York Times might be going bankrupt?" my boss asks.
"Now that," Jason says, draining his cup, "would be a tragedy."
Our biscotti has arrived and I'm reluctant to take the first piece. Is Dr. Burns paying again? It makes me feel awkward, because and despite the fact that she paid the last time--and this was at her invitation. Jason, for all his savior faire, did not appear to know how a Turkish coffee tasting was really supposed to go last time, and did not question when Dr. Burns ordered for all of us. Tracy, similarly, followed the doctor's lead and silently acquiesced when she took the check from the waiter dressed in a vest and what I took be MC Hammer pants. At any rate, it's not too weird for the boss to pay, right? After last time, I had gone home and dug out a 1984 copy of Emily Post, but that wasn't much help. There was no heading for "Research Assistants" nor did I find a chapter on "Student/Professor Luncheons." | The turkish coffee tasting most likely lasted: | Event_duration | [
"A couple of days",
"A few moments",
"An hour or two",
"not enough information"
] | 2 |
f060_3 | f060 | 3 | fiction | {
"author": "Shelby Davis",
"title": "Insect",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/davissother09This_Is_Not_The_End/0.html"
} | I frankly haven't the slightest idea what the difference is between a moka pot and a cafetiere, but I'm going to pretend I do.
"Delicious," I say, setting down my cup. "Way better than that stuff you get at Starbucks."
Everyone else nods their heads in agreement, but I can't help but wonder if they're just being polite. Jason is pouring cream into his cup with a practiced hand, letting the white stream fall from the pitcher's lip in a smooth and slender column that blooms across his coffee's surface like a carnivorous plant photographed in stop-motion.
"Did you hear about Tibet?" he asks.
"Yeah," I say, "Terrible."
"What's really shocking," says my boss, "is the complete ignorance of, well, most of America about what's going on right now."
"Terrible." chimes in Jason. "and what with the death of newspapers, soon practically no one will be able to easily come by a well-formed opinion."
"Did you hear the New York Times might be going bankrupt?" my boss asks.
"Now that," Jason says, draining his cup, "would be a tragedy."
Our biscotti has arrived and I'm reluctant to take the first piece. Is Dr. Burns paying again? It makes me feel awkward, because and despite the fact that she paid the last time--and this was at her invitation. Jason, for all his savior faire, did not appear to know how a Turkish coffee tasting was really supposed to go last time, and did not question when Dr. Burns ordered for all of us. Tracy, similarly, followed the doctor's lead and silently acquiesced when she took the check from the waiter dressed in a vest and what I took be MC Hammer pants. At any rate, it's not too weird for the boss to pay, right? After last time, I had gone home and dug out a 1984 copy of Emily Post, but that wasn't much help. There was no heading for "Research Assistants" nor did I find a chapter on "Student/Professor Luncheons." | When did I make an implicit criticism of Starbucks? | Temporal_order | [
"after Jason asked about Tibet",
"after Jason added cream to his cup",
"not enough information",
"after stating that my drink was delicious"
] | 3 |
f060_4 | f060 | 4 | fiction | {
"author": "Shelby Davis",
"title": "Insect",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/davissother09This_Is_Not_The_End/0.html"
} | I frankly haven't the slightest idea what the difference is between a moka pot and a cafetiere, but I'm going to pretend I do.
"Delicious," I say, setting down my cup. "Way better than that stuff you get at Starbucks."
Everyone else nods their heads in agreement, but I can't help but wonder if they're just being polite. Jason is pouring cream into his cup with a practiced hand, letting the white stream fall from the pitcher's lip in a smooth and slender column that blooms across his coffee's surface like a carnivorous plant photographed in stop-motion.
"Did you hear about Tibet?" he asks.
"Yeah," I say, "Terrible."
"What's really shocking," says my boss, "is the complete ignorance of, well, most of America about what's going on right now."
"Terrible." chimes in Jason. "and what with the death of newspapers, soon practically no one will be able to easily come by a well-formed opinion."
"Did you hear the New York Times might be going bankrupt?" my boss asks.
"Now that," Jason says, draining his cup, "would be a tragedy."
Our biscotti has arrived and I'm reluctant to take the first piece. Is Dr. Burns paying again? It makes me feel awkward, because and despite the fact that she paid the last time--and this was at her invitation. Jason, for all his savior faire, did not appear to know how a Turkish coffee tasting was really supposed to go last time, and did not question when Dr. Burns ordered for all of us. Tracy, similarly, followed the doctor's lead and silently acquiesced when she took the check from the waiter dressed in a vest and what I took be MC Hammer pants. At any rate, it's not too weird for the boss to pay, right? After last time, I had gone home and dug out a 1984 copy of Emily Post, but that wasn't much help. There was no heading for "Research Assistants" nor did I find a chapter on "Student/Professor Luncheons." | What did Dr. Burns study to get her doctorate? | Unanswerable | [
"not enough information",
"coffee making",
"Tibet culture",
"newspaper business"
] | 0 |
f060_5 | f060 | 5 | fiction | {
"author": "Shelby Davis",
"title": "Insect",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/davissother09This_Is_Not_The_End/0.html"
} | I frankly haven't the slightest idea what the difference is between a moka pot and a cafetiere, but I'm going to pretend I do.
"Delicious," I say, setting down my cup. "Way better than that stuff you get at Starbucks."
Everyone else nods their heads in agreement, but I can't help but wonder if they're just being polite. Jason is pouring cream into his cup with a practiced hand, letting the white stream fall from the pitcher's lip in a smooth and slender column that blooms across his coffee's surface like a carnivorous plant photographed in stop-motion.
"Did you hear about Tibet?" he asks.
"Yeah," I say, "Terrible."
"What's really shocking," says my boss, "is the complete ignorance of, well, most of America about what's going on right now."
"Terrible." chimes in Jason. "and what with the death of newspapers, soon practically no one will be able to easily come by a well-formed opinion."
"Did you hear the New York Times might be going bankrupt?" my boss asks.
"Now that," Jason says, draining his cup, "would be a tragedy."
Our biscotti has arrived and I'm reluctant to take the first piece. Is Dr. Burns paying again? It makes me feel awkward, because and despite the fact that she paid the last time--and this was at her invitation. Jason, for all his savior faire, did not appear to know how a Turkish coffee tasting was really supposed to go last time, and did not question when Dr. Burns ordered for all of us. Tracy, similarly, followed the doctor's lead and silently acquiesced when she took the check from the waiter dressed in a vest and what I took be MC Hammer pants. At any rate, it's not too weird for the boss to pay, right? After last time, I had gone home and dug out a 1984 copy of Emily Post, but that wasn't much help. There was no heading for "Research Assistants" nor did I find a chapter on "Student/Professor Luncheons." | Dr. Burns clearly enjoys | Event_duration | [
"not enough information",
"making a critique of Tracy's outfit",
"a Turkish coffee tasting",
"watching Jason drink his coffee"
] | 2 |
f060_6 | f060 | 6 | fiction | {
"author": "Shelby Davis",
"title": "Insect",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/davissother09This_Is_Not_The_End/0.html"
} | I frankly haven't the slightest idea what the difference is between a moka pot and a cafetiere, but I'm going to pretend I do.
"Delicious," I say, setting down my cup. "Way better than that stuff you get at Starbucks."
Everyone else nods their heads in agreement, but I can't help but wonder if they're just being polite. Jason is pouring cream into his cup with a practiced hand, letting the white stream fall from the pitcher's lip in a smooth and slender column that blooms across his coffee's surface like a carnivorous plant photographed in stop-motion.
"Did you hear about Tibet?" he asks.
"Yeah," I say, "Terrible."
"What's really shocking," says my boss, "is the complete ignorance of, well, most of America about what's going on right now."
"Terrible." chimes in Jason. "and what with the death of newspapers, soon practically no one will be able to easily come by a well-formed opinion."
"Did you hear the New York Times might be going bankrupt?" my boss asks.
"Now that," Jason says, draining his cup, "would be a tragedy."
Our biscotti has arrived and I'm reluctant to take the first piece. Is Dr. Burns paying again? It makes me feel awkward, because and despite the fact that she paid the last time--and this was at her invitation. Jason, for all his savior faire, did not appear to know how a Turkish coffee tasting was really supposed to go last time, and did not question when Dr. Burns ordered for all of us. Tracy, similarly, followed the doctor's lead and silently acquiesced when she took the check from the waiter dressed in a vest and what I took be MC Hammer pants. At any rate, it's not too weird for the boss to pay, right? After last time, I had gone home and dug out a 1984 copy of Emily Post, but that wasn't much help. There was no heading for "Research Assistants" nor did I find a chapter on "Student/Professor Luncheons." | Who says that the New York Times going bankrupt would be a tragedy? | Belief_states | [
"not enough information",
"Tracy",
"Jason",
"The main character"
] | 2 |
f060_7 | f060 | 7 | fiction | {
"author": "Shelby Davis",
"title": "Insect",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/davissother09This_Is_Not_The_End/0.html"
} | I frankly haven't the slightest idea what the difference is between a moka pot and a cafetiere, but I'm going to pretend I do.
"Delicious," I say, setting down my cup. "Way better than that stuff you get at Starbucks."
Everyone else nods their heads in agreement, but I can't help but wonder if they're just being polite. Jason is pouring cream into his cup with a practiced hand, letting the white stream fall from the pitcher's lip in a smooth and slender column that blooms across his coffee's surface like a carnivorous plant photographed in stop-motion.
"Did you hear about Tibet?" he asks.
"Yeah," I say, "Terrible."
"What's really shocking," says my boss, "is the complete ignorance of, well, most of America about what's going on right now."
"Terrible." chimes in Jason. "and what with the death of newspapers, soon practically no one will be able to easily come by a well-formed opinion."
"Did you hear the New York Times might be going bankrupt?" my boss asks.
"Now that," Jason says, draining his cup, "would be a tragedy."
Our biscotti has arrived and I'm reluctant to take the first piece. Is Dr. Burns paying again? It makes me feel awkward, because and despite the fact that she paid the last time--and this was at her invitation. Jason, for all his savior faire, did not appear to know how a Turkish coffee tasting was really supposed to go last time, and did not question when Dr. Burns ordered for all of us. Tracy, similarly, followed the doctor's lead and silently acquiesced when she took the check from the waiter dressed in a vest and what I took be MC Hammer pants. At any rate, it's not too weird for the boss to pay, right? After last time, I had gone home and dug out a 1984 copy of Emily Post, but that wasn't much help. There was no heading for "Research Assistants" nor did I find a chapter on "Student/Professor Luncheons." | Who asked about Tibet? | Character_identity | [
"Jason",
"Me",
"not enough information",
"My boss"
] | 0 |
f060_8 | f060 | 8 | fiction | {
"author": "Shelby Davis",
"title": "Insect",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/davissother09This_Is_Not_The_End/0.html"
} | I frankly haven't the slightest idea what the difference is between a moka pot and a cafetiere, but I'm going to pretend I do.
"Delicious," I say, setting down my cup. "Way better than that stuff you get at Starbucks."
Everyone else nods their heads in agreement, but I can't help but wonder if they're just being polite. Jason is pouring cream into his cup with a practiced hand, letting the white stream fall from the pitcher's lip in a smooth and slender column that blooms across his coffee's surface like a carnivorous plant photographed in stop-motion.
"Did you hear about Tibet?" he asks.
"Yeah," I say, "Terrible."
"What's really shocking," says my boss, "is the complete ignorance of, well, most of America about what's going on right now."
"Terrible." chimes in Jason. "and what with the death of newspapers, soon practically no one will be able to easily come by a well-formed opinion."
"Did you hear the New York Times might be going bankrupt?" my boss asks.
"Now that," Jason says, draining his cup, "would be a tragedy."
Our biscotti has arrived and I'm reluctant to take the first piece. Is Dr. Burns paying again? It makes me feel awkward, because and despite the fact that she paid the last time--and this was at her invitation. Jason, for all his savior faire, did not appear to know how a Turkish coffee tasting was really supposed to go last time, and did not question when Dr. Burns ordered for all of us. Tracy, similarly, followed the doctor's lead and silently acquiesced when she took the check from the waiter dressed in a vest and what I took be MC Hammer pants. At any rate, it's not too weird for the boss to pay, right? After last time, I had gone home and dug out a 1984 copy of Emily Post, but that wasn't much help. There was no heading for "Research Assistants" nor did I find a chapter on "Student/Professor Luncheons." | What is probably true about Tracy? | Entity_properties | [
"She is a coffee connoisseur",
"Her favorite play is a tragedy.",
"not enough information",
"She would let the boss to pay for her"
] | 3 |
f060_9 | f060 | 9 | fiction | {
"author": "Shelby Davis",
"title": "Insect",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/davissother09This_Is_Not_The_End/0.html"
} | I frankly haven't the slightest idea what the difference is between a moka pot and a cafetiere, but I'm going to pretend I do.
"Delicious," I say, setting down my cup. "Way better than that stuff you get at Starbucks."
Everyone else nods their heads in agreement, but I can't help but wonder if they're just being polite. Jason is pouring cream into his cup with a practiced hand, letting the white stream fall from the pitcher's lip in a smooth and slender column that blooms across his coffee's surface like a carnivorous plant photographed in stop-motion.
"Did you hear about Tibet?" he asks.
"Yeah," I say, "Terrible."
"What's really shocking," says my boss, "is the complete ignorance of, well, most of America about what's going on right now."
"Terrible." chimes in Jason. "and what with the death of newspapers, soon practically no one will be able to easily come by a well-formed opinion."
"Did you hear the New York Times might be going bankrupt?" my boss asks.
"Now that," Jason says, draining his cup, "would be a tragedy."
Our biscotti has arrived and I'm reluctant to take the first piece. Is Dr. Burns paying again? It makes me feel awkward, because and despite the fact that she paid the last time--and this was at her invitation. Jason, for all his savior faire, did not appear to know how a Turkish coffee tasting was really supposed to go last time, and did not question when Dr. Burns ordered for all of us. Tracy, similarly, followed the doctor's lead and silently acquiesced when she took the check from the waiter dressed in a vest and what I took be MC Hammer pants. At any rate, it's not too weird for the boss to pay, right? After last time, I had gone home and dug out a 1984 copy of Emily Post, but that wasn't much help. There was no heading for "Research Assistants" nor did I find a chapter on "Student/Professor Luncheons." | What caused a white stream to fall from a pitcher's lip? | Causality | [
"Jason pouring into his cup.",
"the actions of the waiter wearing MC Hammer pants",
"The tragedy in Tibet.",
"not enough information"
] | 0 |
f060_10 | f060 | 10 | fiction | {
"author": "Shelby Davis",
"title": "Insect",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/davissother09This_Is_Not_The_End/0.html"
} | I frankly haven't the slightest idea what the difference is between a moka pot and a cafetiere, but I'm going to pretend I do.
"Delicious," I say, setting down my cup. "Way better than that stuff you get at Starbucks."
Everyone else nods their heads in agreement, but I can't help but wonder if they're just being polite. Jason is pouring cream into his cup with a practiced hand, letting the white stream fall from the pitcher's lip in a smooth and slender column that blooms across his coffee's surface like a carnivorous plant photographed in stop-motion.
"Did you hear about Tibet?" he asks.
"Yeah," I say, "Terrible."
"What's really shocking," says my boss, "is the complete ignorance of, well, most of America about what's going on right now."
"Terrible." chimes in Jason. "and what with the death of newspapers, soon practically no one will be able to easily come by a well-formed opinion."
"Did you hear the New York Times might be going bankrupt?" my boss asks.
"Now that," Jason says, draining his cup, "would be a tragedy."
Our biscotti has arrived and I'm reluctant to take the first piece. Is Dr. Burns paying again? It makes me feel awkward, because and despite the fact that she paid the last time--and this was at her invitation. Jason, for all his savior faire, did not appear to know how a Turkish coffee tasting was really supposed to go last time, and did not question when Dr. Burns ordered for all of us. Tracy, similarly, followed the doctor's lead and silently acquiesced when she took the check from the waiter dressed in a vest and what I took be MC Hammer pants. At any rate, it's not too weird for the boss to pay, right? After last time, I had gone home and dug out a 1984 copy of Emily Post, but that wasn't much help. There was no heading for "Research Assistants" nor did I find a chapter on "Student/Professor Luncheons." | Who is Tracy? | Unanswerable | [
"Jason's younger sister",
"The bosses daughter",
"A waitress",
"not enough information"
] | 3 |
f060_11 | f060 | 11 | fiction | {
"author": "Shelby Davis",
"title": "Insect",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/davissother09This_Is_Not_The_End/0.html"
} | I frankly haven't the slightest idea what the difference is between a moka pot and a cafetiere, but I'm going to pretend I do.
"Delicious," I say, setting down my cup. "Way better than that stuff you get at Starbucks."
Everyone else nods their heads in agreement, but I can't help but wonder if they're just being polite. Jason is pouring cream into his cup with a practiced hand, letting the white stream fall from the pitcher's lip in a smooth and slender column that blooms across his coffee's surface like a carnivorous plant photographed in stop-motion.
"Did you hear about Tibet?" he asks.
"Yeah," I say, "Terrible."
"What's really shocking," says my boss, "is the complete ignorance of, well, most of America about what's going on right now."
"Terrible." chimes in Jason. "and what with the death of newspapers, soon practically no one will be able to easily come by a well-formed opinion."
"Did you hear the New York Times might be going bankrupt?" my boss asks.
"Now that," Jason says, draining his cup, "would be a tragedy."
Our biscotti has arrived and I'm reluctant to take the first piece. Is Dr. Burns paying again? It makes me feel awkward, because and despite the fact that she paid the last time--and this was at her invitation. Jason, for all his savior faire, did not appear to know how a Turkish coffee tasting was really supposed to go last time, and did not question when Dr. Burns ordered for all of us. Tracy, similarly, followed the doctor's lead and silently acquiesced when she took the check from the waiter dressed in a vest and what I took be MC Hammer pants. At any rate, it's not too weird for the boss to pay, right? After last time, I had gone home and dug out a 1984 copy of Emily Post, but that wasn't much help. There was no heading for "Research Assistants" nor did I find a chapter on "Student/Professor Luncheons." | After the end of the passage, Jason and the main characters boss most likely: | Subsequent_state | [
"Fires Jason and the main character",
"Pays for the coffee",
"Drops her mug of coffee on the floor",
"not enough information"
] | 1 |
f060_12 | f060 | 12 | fiction | {
"author": "Shelby Davis",
"title": "Insect",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/davissother09This_Is_Not_The_End/0.html"
} | I frankly haven't the slightest idea what the difference is between a moka pot and a cafetiere, but I'm going to pretend I do.
"Delicious," I say, setting down my cup. "Way better than that stuff you get at Starbucks."
Everyone else nods their heads in agreement, but I can't help but wonder if they're just being polite. Jason is pouring cream into his cup with a practiced hand, letting the white stream fall from the pitcher's lip in a smooth and slender column that blooms across his coffee's surface like a carnivorous plant photographed in stop-motion.
"Did you hear about Tibet?" he asks.
"Yeah," I say, "Terrible."
"What's really shocking," says my boss, "is the complete ignorance of, well, most of America about what's going on right now."
"Terrible." chimes in Jason. "and what with the death of newspapers, soon practically no one will be able to easily come by a well-formed opinion."
"Did you hear the New York Times might be going bankrupt?" my boss asks.
"Now that," Jason says, draining his cup, "would be a tragedy."
Our biscotti has arrived and I'm reluctant to take the first piece. Is Dr. Burns paying again? It makes me feel awkward, because and despite the fact that she paid the last time--and this was at her invitation. Jason, for all his savior faire, did not appear to know how a Turkish coffee tasting was really supposed to go last time, and did not question when Dr. Burns ordered for all of us. Tracy, similarly, followed the doctor's lead and silently acquiesced when she took the check from the waiter dressed in a vest and what I took be MC Hammer pants. At any rate, it's not too weird for the boss to pay, right? After last time, I had gone home and dug out a 1984 copy of Emily Post, but that wasn't much help. There was no heading for "Research Assistants" nor did I find a chapter on "Student/Professor Luncheons." | Where is a newspaper in financial trouble? | Factual | [
"Emily Post's state of Florida",
"Tibet",
"New York",
"not enough information"
] | 2 |
f060_13 | f060 | 13 | fiction | {
"author": "Shelby Davis",
"title": "Insect",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/davissother09This_Is_Not_The_End/0.html"
} | I frankly haven't the slightest idea what the difference is between a moka pot and a cafetiere, but I'm going to pretend I do.
"Delicious," I say, setting down my cup. "Way better than that stuff you get at Starbucks."
Everyone else nods their heads in agreement, but I can't help but wonder if they're just being polite. Jason is pouring cream into his cup with a practiced hand, letting the white stream fall from the pitcher's lip in a smooth and slender column that blooms across his coffee's surface like a carnivorous plant photographed in stop-motion.
"Did you hear about Tibet?" he asks.
"Yeah," I say, "Terrible."
"What's really shocking," says my boss, "is the complete ignorance of, well, most of America about what's going on right now."
"Terrible." chimes in Jason. "and what with the death of newspapers, soon practically no one will be able to easily come by a well-formed opinion."
"Did you hear the New York Times might be going bankrupt?" my boss asks.
"Now that," Jason says, draining his cup, "would be a tragedy."
Our biscotti has arrived and I'm reluctant to take the first piece. Is Dr. Burns paying again? It makes me feel awkward, because and despite the fact that she paid the last time--and this was at her invitation. Jason, for all his savior faire, did not appear to know how a Turkish coffee tasting was really supposed to go last time, and did not question when Dr. Burns ordered for all of us. Tracy, similarly, followed the doctor's lead and silently acquiesced when she took the check from the waiter dressed in a vest and what I took be MC Hammer pants. At any rate, it's not too weird for the boss to pay, right? After last time, I had gone home and dug out a 1984 copy of Emily Post, but that wasn't much help. There was no heading for "Research Assistants" nor did I find a chapter on "Student/Professor Luncheons." | What did Jason pour the cream from? | Factual | [
"A moka pot",
"not enough information",
"A cafetiere",
"A pitcher"
] | 3 |
f060_14 | f060 | 14 | fiction | {
"author": "Shelby Davis",
"title": "Insect",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/davissother09This_Is_Not_The_End/0.html"
} | I frankly haven't the slightest idea what the difference is between a moka pot and a cafetiere, but I'm going to pretend I do.
"Delicious," I say, setting down my cup. "Way better than that stuff you get at Starbucks."
Everyone else nods their heads in agreement, but I can't help but wonder if they're just being polite. Jason is pouring cream into his cup with a practiced hand, letting the white stream fall from the pitcher's lip in a smooth and slender column that blooms across his coffee's surface like a carnivorous plant photographed in stop-motion.
"Did you hear about Tibet?" he asks.
"Yeah," I say, "Terrible."
"What's really shocking," says my boss, "is the complete ignorance of, well, most of America about what's going on right now."
"Terrible." chimes in Jason. "and what with the death of newspapers, soon practically no one will be able to easily come by a well-formed opinion."
"Did you hear the New York Times might be going bankrupt?" my boss asks.
"Now that," Jason says, draining his cup, "would be a tragedy."
Our biscotti has arrived and I'm reluctant to take the first piece. Is Dr. Burns paying again? It makes me feel awkward, because and despite the fact that she paid the last time--and this was at her invitation. Jason, for all his savior faire, did not appear to know how a Turkish coffee tasting was really supposed to go last time, and did not question when Dr. Burns ordered for all of us. Tracy, similarly, followed the doctor's lead and silently acquiesced when she took the check from the waiter dressed in a vest and what I took be MC Hammer pants. At any rate, it's not too weird for the boss to pay, right? After last time, I had gone home and dug out a 1984 copy of Emily Post, but that wasn't much help. There was no heading for "Research Assistants" nor did I find a chapter on "Student/Professor Luncheons." | What is most likely true about the boss of the main character? | Entity_properties | [
"He/she is Jason's next door neighbor",
"He/she is also a Professor",
"not enough information",
"He/she does not like coffee"
] | 1 |
f060_15 | f060 | 15 | fiction | {
"author": "Shelby Davis",
"title": "Insect",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/davissother09This_Is_Not_The_End/0.html"
} | I frankly haven't the slightest idea what the difference is between a moka pot and a cafetiere, but I'm going to pretend I do.
"Delicious," I say, setting down my cup. "Way better than that stuff you get at Starbucks."
Everyone else nods their heads in agreement, but I can't help but wonder if they're just being polite. Jason is pouring cream into his cup with a practiced hand, letting the white stream fall from the pitcher's lip in a smooth and slender column that blooms across his coffee's surface like a carnivorous plant photographed in stop-motion.
"Did you hear about Tibet?" he asks.
"Yeah," I say, "Terrible."
"What's really shocking," says my boss, "is the complete ignorance of, well, most of America about what's going on right now."
"Terrible." chimes in Jason. "and what with the death of newspapers, soon practically no one will be able to easily come by a well-formed opinion."
"Did you hear the New York Times might be going bankrupt?" my boss asks.
"Now that," Jason says, draining his cup, "would be a tragedy."
Our biscotti has arrived and I'm reluctant to take the first piece. Is Dr. Burns paying again? It makes me feel awkward, because and despite the fact that she paid the last time--and this was at her invitation. Jason, for all his savior faire, did not appear to know how a Turkish coffee tasting was really supposed to go last time, and did not question when Dr. Burns ordered for all of us. Tracy, similarly, followed the doctor's lead and silently acquiesced when she took the check from the waiter dressed in a vest and what I took be MC Hammer pants. At any rate, it's not too weird for the boss to pay, right? After last time, I had gone home and dug out a 1984 copy of Emily Post, but that wasn't much help. There was no heading for "Research Assistants" nor did I find a chapter on "Student/Professor Luncheons." | After the end of the story, who was my boss? | Subsequent_state | [
"Jason",
"not enough information",
"Tracy",
"Dr. Burns"
] | 3 |
f060_16 | f060 | 16 | fiction | {
"author": "Shelby Davis",
"title": "Insect",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/davissother09This_Is_Not_The_End/0.html"
} | I frankly haven't the slightest idea what the difference is between a moka pot and a cafetiere, but I'm going to pretend I do.
"Delicious," I say, setting down my cup. "Way better than that stuff you get at Starbucks."
Everyone else nods their heads in agreement, but I can't help but wonder if they're just being polite. Jason is pouring cream into his cup with a practiced hand, letting the white stream fall from the pitcher's lip in a smooth and slender column that blooms across his coffee's surface like a carnivorous plant photographed in stop-motion.
"Did you hear about Tibet?" he asks.
"Yeah," I say, "Terrible."
"What's really shocking," says my boss, "is the complete ignorance of, well, most of America about what's going on right now."
"Terrible." chimes in Jason. "and what with the death of newspapers, soon practically no one will be able to easily come by a well-formed opinion."
"Did you hear the New York Times might be going bankrupt?" my boss asks.
"Now that," Jason says, draining his cup, "would be a tragedy."
Our biscotti has arrived and I'm reluctant to take the first piece. Is Dr. Burns paying again? It makes me feel awkward, because and despite the fact that she paid the last time--and this was at her invitation. Jason, for all his savior faire, did not appear to know how a Turkish coffee tasting was really supposed to go last time, and did not question when Dr. Burns ordered for all of us. Tracy, similarly, followed the doctor's lead and silently acquiesced when she took the check from the waiter dressed in a vest and what I took be MC Hammer pants. At any rate, it's not too weird for the boss to pay, right? After last time, I had gone home and dug out a 1984 copy of Emily Post, but that wasn't much help. There was no heading for "Research Assistants" nor did I find a chapter on "Student/Professor Luncheons." | The groups biscotti arrives: | Temporal_order | [
"Before Jason drains his cup",
"not enough information",
"After Jason pours cream into his cup",
"Before the main character sets down his/her cup"
] | 2 |
f060_17 | f060 | 17 | fiction | {
"author": "Shelby Davis",
"title": "Insect",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/davissother09This_Is_Not_The_End/0.html"
} | I frankly haven't the slightest idea what the difference is between a moka pot and a cafetiere, but I'm going to pretend I do.
"Delicious," I say, setting down my cup. "Way better than that stuff you get at Starbucks."
Everyone else nods their heads in agreement, but I can't help but wonder if they're just being polite. Jason is pouring cream into his cup with a practiced hand, letting the white stream fall from the pitcher's lip in a smooth and slender column that blooms across his coffee's surface like a carnivorous plant photographed in stop-motion.
"Did you hear about Tibet?" he asks.
"Yeah," I say, "Terrible."
"What's really shocking," says my boss, "is the complete ignorance of, well, most of America about what's going on right now."
"Terrible." chimes in Jason. "and what with the death of newspapers, soon practically no one will be able to easily come by a well-formed opinion."
"Did you hear the New York Times might be going bankrupt?" my boss asks.
"Now that," Jason says, draining his cup, "would be a tragedy."
Our biscotti has arrived and I'm reluctant to take the first piece. Is Dr. Burns paying again? It makes me feel awkward, because and despite the fact that she paid the last time--and this was at her invitation. Jason, for all his savior faire, did not appear to know how a Turkish coffee tasting was really supposed to go last time, and did not question when Dr. Burns ordered for all of us. Tracy, similarly, followed the doctor's lead and silently acquiesced when she took the check from the waiter dressed in a vest and what I took be MC Hammer pants. At any rate, it's not too weird for the boss to pay, right? After last time, I had gone home and dug out a 1984 copy of Emily Post, but that wasn't much help. There was no heading for "Research Assistants" nor did I find a chapter on "Student/Professor Luncheons." | Who says that the New York Times is going bankrupt? | Character_identity | [
"not enough information",
"Jason",
"Tracy",
"Jason and the main characters boss"
] | 3 |
f061_0 | f061 | 0 | fiction | {
"author": "Shelby Davis",
"title": "The Appreciative Life",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/davissother09This_Is_Not_The_End/0.html"
} | He picked me up at my house, and after getting back on the main road he turned up the volume on the radio.
"Why do you even listen to that stuff?" I asked. It was schlock-rock, simple and unadorned wailing backed by incessantly grating guitars.
"I don't really know."
"You don't actually like it, do you?" I knew he didn't; I knew what he preferred. His apartment walls were lined with recordings of classical, even archaic music, European folk instrumentals. Maybe rock, once in a while, but he had had something amplified and pitch-altered on every time we'd been together lately.
"I think we listen to pop music to punish ourselves," he said. "An aural bed of nails to compensate for our sins."
"Those sins being...?"
"I don't know... sometimes, don't you ever get so sick of everything you just want to cram your ears full of garbage to spite it all?"
This was not normal second-date dialogue, but Phillip and I had known each other for a long time.
"It's like you'd rather inflict pain," he said, "like you want to inflict pain on yourself, just for pure spite against... the stuff around us."
"You'd choke on garbage to get back at a culture who would do it for you anyway?"
"Yeah, kind of. Does that make sense?"
"In a very cliched, pop-psychology sort of way, yes." I turned down the volume, then shut the radio off entirely.
"Don't you ever want to hurt like that?" he asked. "It's why you read some thriller instead of a classic, it's why you watch TV instead of reading a book, it's why you watch a sitcom instead of PBS, it's why you watch Family Guy instead of the Simpsons." (I might have snorted at this point.) "Because you have to do the bad thing." | Why did the author ask about Philip's music? | Causality | [
"not enough information",
"The author was curious why he chose to listen to it.",
"The author was used to hearing it when they spent time together",
"The author knew he didn't prefer that type of music."
] | 3 |
f061_1 | f061 | 1 | fiction | {
"author": "Shelby Davis",
"title": "The Appreciative Life",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/davissother09This_Is_Not_The_End/0.html"
} | He picked me up at my house, and after getting back on the main road he turned up the volume on the radio.
"Why do you even listen to that stuff?" I asked. It was schlock-rock, simple and unadorned wailing backed by incessantly grating guitars.
"I don't really know."
"You don't actually like it, do you?" I knew he didn't; I knew what he preferred. His apartment walls were lined with recordings of classical, even archaic music, European folk instrumentals. Maybe rock, once in a while, but he had had something amplified and pitch-altered on every time we'd been together lately.
"I think we listen to pop music to punish ourselves," he said. "An aural bed of nails to compensate for our sins."
"Those sins being...?"
"I don't know... sometimes, don't you ever get so sick of everything you just want to cram your ears full of garbage to spite it all?"
This was not normal second-date dialogue, but Phillip and I had known each other for a long time.
"It's like you'd rather inflict pain," he said, "like you want to inflict pain on yourself, just for pure spite against... the stuff around us."
"You'd choke on garbage to get back at a culture who would do it for you anyway?"
"Yeah, kind of. Does that make sense?"
"In a very cliched, pop-psychology sort of way, yes." I turned down the volume, then shut the radio off entirely.
"Don't you ever want to hurt like that?" he asked. "It's why you read some thriller instead of a classic, it's why you watch TV instead of reading a book, it's why you watch a sitcom instead of PBS, it's why you watch Family Guy instead of the Simpsons." (I might have snorted at this point.) "Because you have to do the bad thing." | Where does Phillip live? | Unanswerable | [
"not enough information",
"On the main road",
"Near the narrator's house",
"Near a European folk instrument shop."
] | 0 |
f061_2 | f061 | 2 | fiction | {
"author": "Shelby Davis",
"title": "The Appreciative Life",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/davissother09This_Is_Not_The_End/0.html"
} | He picked me up at my house, and after getting back on the main road he turned up the volume on the radio.
"Why do you even listen to that stuff?" I asked. It was schlock-rock, simple and unadorned wailing backed by incessantly grating guitars.
"I don't really know."
"You don't actually like it, do you?" I knew he didn't; I knew what he preferred. His apartment walls were lined with recordings of classical, even archaic music, European folk instrumentals. Maybe rock, once in a while, but he had had something amplified and pitch-altered on every time we'd been together lately.
"I think we listen to pop music to punish ourselves," he said. "An aural bed of nails to compensate for our sins."
"Those sins being...?"
"I don't know... sometimes, don't you ever get so sick of everything you just want to cram your ears full of garbage to spite it all?"
This was not normal second-date dialogue, but Phillip and I had known each other for a long time.
"It's like you'd rather inflict pain," he said, "like you want to inflict pain on yourself, just for pure spite against... the stuff around us."
"You'd choke on garbage to get back at a culture who would do it for you anyway?"
"Yeah, kind of. Does that make sense?"
"In a very cliched, pop-psychology sort of way, yes." I turned down the volume, then shut the radio off entirely.
"Don't you ever want to hurt like that?" he asked. "It's why you read some thriller instead of a classic, it's why you watch TV instead of reading a book, it's why you watch a sitcom instead of PBS, it's why you watch Family Guy instead of the Simpsons." (I might have snorted at this point.) "Because you have to do the bad thing." | Why was Phillip picking up the narrator? | Causality | [
"To cram their ears full of garbage.",
"For a second date",
"To bring him/her to a rock concert",
"not enough information"
] | 1 |
f061_3 | f061 | 3 | fiction | {
"author": "Shelby Davis",
"title": "The Appreciative Life",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/davissother09This_Is_Not_The_End/0.html"
} | He picked me up at my house, and after getting back on the main road he turned up the volume on the radio.
"Why do you even listen to that stuff?" I asked. It was schlock-rock, simple and unadorned wailing backed by incessantly grating guitars.
"I don't really know."
"You don't actually like it, do you?" I knew he didn't; I knew what he preferred. His apartment walls were lined with recordings of classical, even archaic music, European folk instrumentals. Maybe rock, once in a while, but he had had something amplified and pitch-altered on every time we'd been together lately.
"I think we listen to pop music to punish ourselves," he said. "An aural bed of nails to compensate for our sins."
"Those sins being...?"
"I don't know... sometimes, don't you ever get so sick of everything you just want to cram your ears full of garbage to spite it all?"
This was not normal second-date dialogue, but Phillip and I had known each other for a long time.
"It's like you'd rather inflict pain," he said, "like you want to inflict pain on yourself, just for pure spite against... the stuff around us."
"You'd choke on garbage to get back at a culture who would do it for you anyway?"
"Yeah, kind of. Does that make sense?"
"In a very cliched, pop-psychology sort of way, yes." I turned down the volume, then shut the radio off entirely.
"Don't you ever want to hurt like that?" he asked. "It's why you read some thriller instead of a classic, it's why you watch TV instead of reading a book, it's why you watch a sitcom instead of PBS, it's why you watch Family Guy instead of the Simpsons." (I might have snorted at this point.) "Because you have to do the bad thing." | Philip believes that: | Belief_states | [
"People like rock music.",
"People like TV.",
"not enough information",
"People like to engage in things that are bad for them."
] | 3 |
f061_4 | f061 | 4 | fiction | {
"author": "Shelby Davis",
"title": "The Appreciative Life",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/davissother09This_Is_Not_The_End/0.html"
} | He picked me up at my house, and after getting back on the main road he turned up the volume on the radio.
"Why do you even listen to that stuff?" I asked. It was schlock-rock, simple and unadorned wailing backed by incessantly grating guitars.
"I don't really know."
"You don't actually like it, do you?" I knew he didn't; I knew what he preferred. His apartment walls were lined with recordings of classical, even archaic music, European folk instrumentals. Maybe rock, once in a while, but he had had something amplified and pitch-altered on every time we'd been together lately.
"I think we listen to pop music to punish ourselves," he said. "An aural bed of nails to compensate for our sins."
"Those sins being...?"
"I don't know... sometimes, don't you ever get so sick of everything you just want to cram your ears full of garbage to spite it all?"
This was not normal second-date dialogue, but Phillip and I had known each other for a long time.
"It's like you'd rather inflict pain," he said, "like you want to inflict pain on yourself, just for pure spite against... the stuff around us."
"You'd choke on garbage to get back at a culture who would do it for you anyway?"
"Yeah, kind of. Does that make sense?"
"In a very cliched, pop-psychology sort of way, yes." I turned down the volume, then shut the radio off entirely.
"Don't you ever want to hurt like that?" he asked. "It's why you read some thriller instead of a classic, it's why you watch TV instead of reading a book, it's why you watch a sitcom instead of PBS, it's why you watch Family Guy instead of the Simpsons." (I might have snorted at this point.) "Because you have to do the bad thing." | When did the author turn off the radio? | Temporal_order | [
"Before asking Philip why he listened to it.",
"After listening to Philip's reason for listening to it.",
"not enough information",
"As soon as Philip turned up the radio."
] | 1 |
f061_5 | f061 | 5 | fiction | {
"author": "Shelby Davis",
"title": "The Appreciative Life",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/davissother09This_Is_Not_The_End/0.html"
} | He picked me up at my house, and after getting back on the main road he turned up the volume on the radio.
"Why do you even listen to that stuff?" I asked. It was schlock-rock, simple and unadorned wailing backed by incessantly grating guitars.
"I don't really know."
"You don't actually like it, do you?" I knew he didn't; I knew what he preferred. His apartment walls were lined with recordings of classical, even archaic music, European folk instrumentals. Maybe rock, once in a while, but he had had something amplified and pitch-altered on every time we'd been together lately.
"I think we listen to pop music to punish ourselves," he said. "An aural bed of nails to compensate for our sins."
"Those sins being...?"
"I don't know... sometimes, don't you ever get so sick of everything you just want to cram your ears full of garbage to spite it all?"
This was not normal second-date dialogue, but Phillip and I had known each other for a long time.
"It's like you'd rather inflict pain," he said, "like you want to inflict pain on yourself, just for pure spite against... the stuff around us."
"You'd choke on garbage to get back at a culture who would do it for you anyway?"
"Yeah, kind of. Does that make sense?"
"In a very cliched, pop-psychology sort of way, yes." I turned down the volume, then shut the radio off entirely.
"Don't you ever want to hurt like that?" he asked. "It's why you read some thriller instead of a classic, it's why you watch TV instead of reading a book, it's why you watch a sitcom instead of PBS, it's why you watch Family Guy instead of the Simpsons." (I might have snorted at this point.) "Because you have to do the bad thing." | How long have the author and Philip known each other? | Unanswerable | [
"Two years",
"not enough information",
"One year",
"Three years"
] | 1 |
f061_6 | f061 | 6 | fiction | {
"author": "Shelby Davis",
"title": "The Appreciative Life",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/davissother09This_Is_Not_The_End/0.html"
} | He picked me up at my house, and after getting back on the main road he turned up the volume on the radio.
"Why do you even listen to that stuff?" I asked. It was schlock-rock, simple and unadorned wailing backed by incessantly grating guitars.
"I don't really know."
"You don't actually like it, do you?" I knew he didn't; I knew what he preferred. His apartment walls were lined with recordings of classical, even archaic music, European folk instrumentals. Maybe rock, once in a while, but he had had something amplified and pitch-altered on every time we'd been together lately.
"I think we listen to pop music to punish ourselves," he said. "An aural bed of nails to compensate for our sins."
"Those sins being...?"
"I don't know... sometimes, don't you ever get so sick of everything you just want to cram your ears full of garbage to spite it all?"
This was not normal second-date dialogue, but Phillip and I had known each other for a long time.
"It's like you'd rather inflict pain," he said, "like you want to inflict pain on yourself, just for pure spite against... the stuff around us."
"You'd choke on garbage to get back at a culture who would do it for you anyway?"
"Yeah, kind of. Does that make sense?"
"In a very cliched, pop-psychology sort of way, yes." I turned down the volume, then shut the radio off entirely.
"Don't you ever want to hurt like that?" he asked. "It's why you read some thriller instead of a classic, it's why you watch TV instead of reading a book, it's why you watch a sitcom instead of PBS, it's why you watch Family Guy instead of the Simpsons." (I might have snorted at this point.) "Because you have to do the bad thing." | Whose apartment wall was lined with classical recordings? | Character_identity | [
"not enough information",
"The singer.",
"The author",
"Philip"
] | 3 |
f061_7 | f061 | 7 | fiction | {
"author": "Shelby Davis",
"title": "The Appreciative Life",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/davissother09This_Is_Not_The_End/0.html"
} | He picked me up at my house, and after getting back on the main road he turned up the volume on the radio.
"Why do you even listen to that stuff?" I asked. It was schlock-rock, simple and unadorned wailing backed by incessantly grating guitars.
"I don't really know."
"You don't actually like it, do you?" I knew he didn't; I knew what he preferred. His apartment walls were lined with recordings of classical, even archaic music, European folk instrumentals. Maybe rock, once in a while, but he had had something amplified and pitch-altered on every time we'd been together lately.
"I think we listen to pop music to punish ourselves," he said. "An aural bed of nails to compensate for our sins."
"Those sins being...?"
"I don't know... sometimes, don't you ever get so sick of everything you just want to cram your ears full of garbage to spite it all?"
This was not normal second-date dialogue, but Phillip and I had known each other for a long time.
"It's like you'd rather inflict pain," he said, "like you want to inflict pain on yourself, just for pure spite against... the stuff around us."
"You'd choke on garbage to get back at a culture who would do it for you anyway?"
"Yeah, kind of. Does that make sense?"
"In a very cliched, pop-psychology sort of way, yes." I turned down the volume, then shut the radio off entirely.
"Don't you ever want to hurt like that?" he asked. "It's why you read some thriller instead of a classic, it's why you watch TV instead of reading a book, it's why you watch a sitcom instead of PBS, it's why you watch Family Guy instead of the Simpsons." (I might have snorted at this point.) "Because you have to do the bad thing." | Phillip turned on the radio: | Temporal_order | [
"After they had a conversation about why they listened to bad music.",
"After getting back on the main road.",
"On their first date.",
"not enough information"
] | 1 |
f061_8 | f061 | 8 | fiction | {
"author": "Shelby Davis",
"title": "The Appreciative Life",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/davissother09This_Is_Not_The_End/0.html"
} | He picked me up at my house, and after getting back on the main road he turned up the volume on the radio.
"Why do you even listen to that stuff?" I asked. It was schlock-rock, simple and unadorned wailing backed by incessantly grating guitars.
"I don't really know."
"You don't actually like it, do you?" I knew he didn't; I knew what he preferred. His apartment walls were lined with recordings of classical, even archaic music, European folk instrumentals. Maybe rock, once in a while, but he had had something amplified and pitch-altered on every time we'd been together lately.
"I think we listen to pop music to punish ourselves," he said. "An aural bed of nails to compensate for our sins."
"Those sins being...?"
"I don't know... sometimes, don't you ever get so sick of everything you just want to cram your ears full of garbage to spite it all?"
This was not normal second-date dialogue, but Phillip and I had known each other for a long time.
"It's like you'd rather inflict pain," he said, "like you want to inflict pain on yourself, just for pure spite against... the stuff around us."
"You'd choke on garbage to get back at a culture who would do it for you anyway?"
"Yeah, kind of. Does that make sense?"
"In a very cliched, pop-psychology sort of way, yes." I turned down the volume, then shut the radio off entirely.
"Don't you ever want to hurt like that?" he asked. "It's why you read some thriller instead of a classic, it's why you watch TV instead of reading a book, it's why you watch a sitcom instead of PBS, it's why you watch Family Guy instead of the Simpsons." (I might have snorted at this point.) "Because you have to do the bad thing." | What is probably true about the author? | Entity_properties | [
"She/he doesn't like Philip.",
"She/he doesn't knw Philip very well.",
"She/he doesn't like the hard rock music.",
"not enough information"
] | 2 |
f061_9 | f061 | 9 | fiction | {
"author": "Shelby Davis",
"title": "The Appreciative Life",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/davissother09This_Is_Not_The_End/0.html"
} | He picked me up at my house, and after getting back on the main road he turned up the volume on the radio.
"Why do you even listen to that stuff?" I asked. It was schlock-rock, simple and unadorned wailing backed by incessantly grating guitars.
"I don't really know."
"You don't actually like it, do you?" I knew he didn't; I knew what he preferred. His apartment walls were lined with recordings of classical, even archaic music, European folk instrumentals. Maybe rock, once in a while, but he had had something amplified and pitch-altered on every time we'd been together lately.
"I think we listen to pop music to punish ourselves," he said. "An aural bed of nails to compensate for our sins."
"Those sins being...?"
"I don't know... sometimes, don't you ever get so sick of everything you just want to cram your ears full of garbage to spite it all?"
This was not normal second-date dialogue, but Phillip and I had known each other for a long time.
"It's like you'd rather inflict pain," he said, "like you want to inflict pain on yourself, just for pure spite against... the stuff around us."
"You'd choke on garbage to get back at a culture who would do it for you anyway?"
"Yeah, kind of. Does that make sense?"
"In a very cliched, pop-psychology sort of way, yes." I turned down the volume, then shut the radio off entirely.
"Don't you ever want to hurt like that?" he asked. "It's why you read some thriller instead of a classic, it's why you watch TV instead of reading a book, it's why you watch a sitcom instead of PBS, it's why you watch Family Guy instead of the Simpsons." (I might have snorted at this point.) "Because you have to do the bad thing." | Phillip and the narrator had known each other for: | Event_duration | [
"many years",
"They had just met",
"a couple weeks",
"not enough information"
] | 0 |
f061_10 | f061 | 10 | fiction | {
"author": "Shelby Davis",
"title": "The Appreciative Life",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/davissother09This_Is_Not_The_End/0.html"
} | He picked me up at my house, and after getting back on the main road he turned up the volume on the radio.
"Why do you even listen to that stuff?" I asked. It was schlock-rock, simple and unadorned wailing backed by incessantly grating guitars.
"I don't really know."
"You don't actually like it, do you?" I knew he didn't; I knew what he preferred. His apartment walls were lined with recordings of classical, even archaic music, European folk instrumentals. Maybe rock, once in a while, but he had had something amplified and pitch-altered on every time we'd been together lately.
"I think we listen to pop music to punish ourselves," he said. "An aural bed of nails to compensate for our sins."
"Those sins being...?"
"I don't know... sometimes, don't you ever get so sick of everything you just want to cram your ears full of garbage to spite it all?"
This was not normal second-date dialogue, but Phillip and I had known each other for a long time.
"It's like you'd rather inflict pain," he said, "like you want to inflict pain on yourself, just for pure spite against... the stuff around us."
"You'd choke on garbage to get back at a culture who would do it for you anyway?"
"Yeah, kind of. Does that make sense?"
"In a very cliched, pop-psychology sort of way, yes." I turned down the volume, then shut the radio off entirely.
"Don't you ever want to hurt like that?" he asked. "It's why you read some thriller instead of a classic, it's why you watch TV instead of reading a book, it's why you watch a sitcom instead of PBS, it's why you watch Family Guy instead of the Simpsons." (I might have snorted at this point.) "Because you have to do the bad thing." | After the end of the story, the author is: | Subsequent_state | [
"Pensive",
"not enough information",
"Unsure",
"Conflicted"
] | 0 |
f061_11 | f061 | 11 | fiction | {
"author": "Shelby Davis",
"title": "The Appreciative Life",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/davissother09This_Is_Not_The_End/0.html"
} | He picked me up at my house, and after getting back on the main road he turned up the volume on the radio.
"Why do you even listen to that stuff?" I asked. It was schlock-rock, simple and unadorned wailing backed by incessantly grating guitars.
"I don't really know."
"You don't actually like it, do you?" I knew he didn't; I knew what he preferred. His apartment walls were lined with recordings of classical, even archaic music, European folk instrumentals. Maybe rock, once in a while, but he had had something amplified and pitch-altered on every time we'd been together lately.
"I think we listen to pop music to punish ourselves," he said. "An aural bed of nails to compensate for our sins."
"Those sins being...?"
"I don't know... sometimes, don't you ever get so sick of everything you just want to cram your ears full of garbage to spite it all?"
This was not normal second-date dialogue, but Phillip and I had known each other for a long time.
"It's like you'd rather inflict pain," he said, "like you want to inflict pain on yourself, just for pure spite against... the stuff around us."
"You'd choke on garbage to get back at a culture who would do it for you anyway?"
"Yeah, kind of. Does that make sense?"
"In a very cliched, pop-psychology sort of way, yes." I turned down the volume, then shut the radio off entirely.
"Don't you ever want to hurt like that?" he asked. "It's why you read some thriller instead of a classic, it's why you watch TV instead of reading a book, it's why you watch a sitcom instead of PBS, it's why you watch Family Guy instead of the Simpsons." (I might have snorted at this point.) "Because you have to do the bad thing." | What kind of music does Philip prefer? | Factual | [
"Jazz",
"Rock",
"not enough information",
"Classical"
] | 3 |
f061_12 | f061 | 12 | fiction | {
"author": "Shelby Davis",
"title": "The Appreciative Life",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/davissother09This_Is_Not_The_End/0.html"
} | He picked me up at my house, and after getting back on the main road he turned up the volume on the radio.
"Why do you even listen to that stuff?" I asked. It was schlock-rock, simple and unadorned wailing backed by incessantly grating guitars.
"I don't really know."
"You don't actually like it, do you?" I knew he didn't; I knew what he preferred. His apartment walls were lined with recordings of classical, even archaic music, European folk instrumentals. Maybe rock, once in a while, but he had had something amplified and pitch-altered on every time we'd been together lately.
"I think we listen to pop music to punish ourselves," he said. "An aural bed of nails to compensate for our sins."
"Those sins being...?"
"I don't know... sometimes, don't you ever get so sick of everything you just want to cram your ears full of garbage to spite it all?"
This was not normal second-date dialogue, but Phillip and I had known each other for a long time.
"It's like you'd rather inflict pain," he said, "like you want to inflict pain on yourself, just for pure spite against... the stuff around us."
"You'd choke on garbage to get back at a culture who would do it for you anyway?"
"Yeah, kind of. Does that make sense?"
"In a very cliched, pop-psychology sort of way, yes." I turned down the volume, then shut the radio off entirely.
"Don't you ever want to hurt like that?" he asked. "It's why you read some thriller instead of a classic, it's why you watch TV instead of reading a book, it's why you watch a sitcom instead of PBS, it's why you watch Family Guy instead of the Simpsons." (I might have snorted at this point.) "Because you have to do the bad thing." | At the end of this story, the radio in Phillip's car is: | Subsequent_state | [
"Blaring loudly",
"Turned off",
"Playing classical music",
"not enough information"
] | 1 |
f061_13 | f061 | 13 | fiction | {
"author": "Shelby Davis",
"title": "The Appreciative Life",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/davissother09This_Is_Not_The_End/0.html"
} | He picked me up at my house, and after getting back on the main road he turned up the volume on the radio.
"Why do you even listen to that stuff?" I asked. It was schlock-rock, simple and unadorned wailing backed by incessantly grating guitars.
"I don't really know."
"You don't actually like it, do you?" I knew he didn't; I knew what he preferred. His apartment walls were lined with recordings of classical, even archaic music, European folk instrumentals. Maybe rock, once in a while, but he had had something amplified and pitch-altered on every time we'd been together lately.
"I think we listen to pop music to punish ourselves," he said. "An aural bed of nails to compensate for our sins."
"Those sins being...?"
"I don't know... sometimes, don't you ever get so sick of everything you just want to cram your ears full of garbage to spite it all?"
This was not normal second-date dialogue, but Phillip and I had known each other for a long time.
"It's like you'd rather inflict pain," he said, "like you want to inflict pain on yourself, just for pure spite against... the stuff around us."
"You'd choke on garbage to get back at a culture who would do it for you anyway?"
"Yeah, kind of. Does that make sense?"
"In a very cliched, pop-psychology sort of way, yes." I turned down the volume, then shut the radio off entirely.
"Don't you ever want to hurt like that?" he asked. "It's why you read some thriller instead of a classic, it's why you watch TV instead of reading a book, it's why you watch a sitcom instead of PBS, it's why you watch Family Guy instead of the Simpsons." (I might have snorted at this point.) "Because you have to do the bad thing." | Whose apartment was lined with recordings of classical music? | Character_identity | [
"Phillip",
"not enough information",
"The producers of the Simpsons",
"The other person in the car"
] | 0 |
f061_14 | f061 | 14 | fiction | {
"author": "Shelby Davis",
"title": "The Appreciative Life",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/davissother09This_Is_Not_The_End/0.html"
} | He picked me up at my house, and after getting back on the main road he turned up the volume on the radio.
"Why do you even listen to that stuff?" I asked. It was schlock-rock, simple and unadorned wailing backed by incessantly grating guitars.
"I don't really know."
"You don't actually like it, do you?" I knew he didn't; I knew what he preferred. His apartment walls were lined with recordings of classical, even archaic music, European folk instrumentals. Maybe rock, once in a while, but he had had something amplified and pitch-altered on every time we'd been together lately.
"I think we listen to pop music to punish ourselves," he said. "An aural bed of nails to compensate for our sins."
"Those sins being...?"
"I don't know... sometimes, don't you ever get so sick of everything you just want to cram your ears full of garbage to spite it all?"
This was not normal second-date dialogue, but Phillip and I had known each other for a long time.
"It's like you'd rather inflict pain," he said, "like you want to inflict pain on yourself, just for pure spite against... the stuff around us."
"You'd choke on garbage to get back at a culture who would do it for you anyway?"
"Yeah, kind of. Does that make sense?"
"In a very cliched, pop-psychology sort of way, yes." I turned down the volume, then shut the radio off entirely.
"Don't you ever want to hurt like that?" he asked. "It's why you read some thriller instead of a classic, it's why you watch TV instead of reading a book, it's why you watch a sitcom instead of PBS, it's why you watch Family Guy instead of the Simpsons." (I might have snorted at this point.) "Because you have to do the bad thing." | Phillip thinks people listen to pop music to: | Belief_states | [
"punish themselves",
"inflict pain on other people.",
"educate themselves",
"not enough information"
] | 0 |
f061_15 | f061 | 15 | fiction | {
"author": "Shelby Davis",
"title": "The Appreciative Life",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/davissother09This_Is_Not_The_End/0.html"
} | He picked me up at my house, and after getting back on the main road he turned up the volume on the radio.
"Why do you even listen to that stuff?" I asked. It was schlock-rock, simple and unadorned wailing backed by incessantly grating guitars.
"I don't really know."
"You don't actually like it, do you?" I knew he didn't; I knew what he preferred. His apartment walls were lined with recordings of classical, even archaic music, European folk instrumentals. Maybe rock, once in a while, but he had had something amplified and pitch-altered on every time we'd been together lately.
"I think we listen to pop music to punish ourselves," he said. "An aural bed of nails to compensate for our sins."
"Those sins being...?"
"I don't know... sometimes, don't you ever get so sick of everything you just want to cram your ears full of garbage to spite it all?"
This was not normal second-date dialogue, but Phillip and I had known each other for a long time.
"It's like you'd rather inflict pain," he said, "like you want to inflict pain on yourself, just for pure spite against... the stuff around us."
"You'd choke on garbage to get back at a culture who would do it for you anyway?"
"Yeah, kind of. Does that make sense?"
"In a very cliched, pop-psychology sort of way, yes." I turned down the volume, then shut the radio off entirely.
"Don't you ever want to hurt like that?" he asked. "It's why you read some thriller instead of a classic, it's why you watch TV instead of reading a book, it's why you watch a sitcom instead of PBS, it's why you watch Family Guy instead of the Simpsons." (I might have snorted at this point.) "Because you have to do the bad thing." | What type of music did Phillip actually prefer? | Factual | [
"Schlock-rock, simple and unadorned",
"not enough information",
"Classical or archaic music",
"Amplified rock"
] | 2 |
f061_16 | f061 | 16 | fiction | {
"author": "Shelby Davis",
"title": "The Appreciative Life",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/davissother09This_Is_Not_The_End/0.html"
} | He picked me up at my house, and after getting back on the main road he turned up the volume on the radio.
"Why do you even listen to that stuff?" I asked. It was schlock-rock, simple and unadorned wailing backed by incessantly grating guitars.
"I don't really know."
"You don't actually like it, do you?" I knew he didn't; I knew what he preferred. His apartment walls were lined with recordings of classical, even archaic music, European folk instrumentals. Maybe rock, once in a while, but he had had something amplified and pitch-altered on every time we'd been together lately.
"I think we listen to pop music to punish ourselves," he said. "An aural bed of nails to compensate for our sins."
"Those sins being...?"
"I don't know... sometimes, don't you ever get so sick of everything you just want to cram your ears full of garbage to spite it all?"
This was not normal second-date dialogue, but Phillip and I had known each other for a long time.
"It's like you'd rather inflict pain," he said, "like you want to inflict pain on yourself, just for pure spite against... the stuff around us."
"You'd choke on garbage to get back at a culture who would do it for you anyway?"
"Yeah, kind of. Does that make sense?"
"In a very cliched, pop-psychology sort of way, yes." I turned down the volume, then shut the radio off entirely.
"Don't you ever want to hurt like that?" he asked. "It's why you read some thriller instead of a classic, it's why you watch TV instead of reading a book, it's why you watch a sitcom instead of PBS, it's why you watch Family Guy instead of the Simpsons." (I might have snorted at this point.) "Because you have to do the bad thing." | What is probably true about Phillip? | Entity_properties | [
"not enough information",
"Phillip wants to keep others from listening to music",
"He enjoys listening to music",
"He cannot stand music"
] | 2 |
f061_17 | f061 | 17 | fiction | {
"author": "Shelby Davis",
"title": "The Appreciative Life",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/davissother09This_Is_Not_The_End/0.html"
} | He picked me up at my house, and after getting back on the main road he turned up the volume on the radio.
"Why do you even listen to that stuff?" I asked. It was schlock-rock, simple and unadorned wailing backed by incessantly grating guitars.
"I don't really know."
"You don't actually like it, do you?" I knew he didn't; I knew what he preferred. His apartment walls were lined with recordings of classical, even archaic music, European folk instrumentals. Maybe rock, once in a while, but he had had something amplified and pitch-altered on every time we'd been together lately.
"I think we listen to pop music to punish ourselves," he said. "An aural bed of nails to compensate for our sins."
"Those sins being...?"
"I don't know... sometimes, don't you ever get so sick of everything you just want to cram your ears full of garbage to spite it all?"
This was not normal second-date dialogue, but Phillip and I had known each other for a long time.
"It's like you'd rather inflict pain," he said, "like you want to inflict pain on yourself, just for pure spite against... the stuff around us."
"You'd choke on garbage to get back at a culture who would do it for you anyway?"
"Yeah, kind of. Does that make sense?"
"In a very cliched, pop-psychology sort of way, yes." I turned down the volume, then shut the radio off entirely.
"Don't you ever want to hurt like that?" he asked. "It's why you read some thriller instead of a classic, it's why you watch TV instead of reading a book, it's why you watch a sitcom instead of PBS, it's why you watch Family Guy instead of the Simpsons." (I might have snorted at this point.) "Because you have to do the bad thing." | How long was the radio playing before the author shut it off? | Event_duration | [
"Fifteen minutes",
"Five minutes",
"Half an hour",
"not enough information"
] | 1 |
f062_0 | f062 | 0 | fiction | {
"author": "Shelby Davis",
"title": "nan",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/davissother09This_Is_Not_The_End/0.html"
} | The sound of the clacking grew unbearable, so we turned the volume down.
"Mute it."
We muted it.
"Turn it up; we might miss something."
It's a silent movie. We won't miss anything.
The sound of clacking gradually fills the room as my brother reluctantly turns up the volume. I can tell he's pressing hard on the button, jamming his thumb down in defiance or muted anger. He doesn't like for anyone to tell him what to do with the remote. But my grandmother wants the volume up, so we turn it up.
We're all sitting along the edges of the tiny living room, staring at the fuzzy black-and-white images as they hazily walk across the television screen. I can hear a siren outside, barely discernable and then gone entirely.
"Who's that?" my brother asks, evidently past his momentary and barely-noticeable indignation over the remote.
"Uncle Arehl, and maybe his sister, Edna," my grandmother says, leaning in closer. "I think it's Edna," she says, in the tone of a doctor diagnosing a disease, as if the verdict was somehow relevant to someone who has only the vaguest idea who Arehl's sister is, or was. Uncle Arehl (I don't know precisely whose uncle he is, or for what the two initials of his name once stood) saunters slowly across a dry, patchy lawn, and the camera follows him. For some reason I'm more interested in the lawn--if it can be called that--than in the people on it. The sun in the movie is blazing, and everyone filmed looks only briefly at the camera before averting their faces once again to look at the stubbly grass. The camera pans once again and I can see an incredibly rutted path leading from the porch to the fence at the edge of the yard, broken pieces of concrete amid deep tire tracks fossilized in sun-baked mud. The fence is low, wire like a chain-link, but lower, with metal stakes holding it up instead of tubes. | Why did the siren sound quiet? | Causality | [
"the grandmother were too loud",
"the tv was too loud",
"the sun was blazing",
"not enough information"
] | 1 |
f062_1 | f062 | 1 | fiction | {
"author": "Shelby Davis",
"title": "nan",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/davissother09This_Is_Not_The_End/0.html"
} | The sound of the clacking grew unbearable, so we turned the volume down.
"Mute it."
We muted it.
"Turn it up; we might miss something."
It's a silent movie. We won't miss anything.
The sound of clacking gradually fills the room as my brother reluctantly turns up the volume. I can tell he's pressing hard on the button, jamming his thumb down in defiance or muted anger. He doesn't like for anyone to tell him what to do with the remote. But my grandmother wants the volume up, so we turn it up.
We're all sitting along the edges of the tiny living room, staring at the fuzzy black-and-white images as they hazily walk across the television screen. I can hear a siren outside, barely discernable and then gone entirely.
"Who's that?" my brother asks, evidently past his momentary and barely-noticeable indignation over the remote.
"Uncle Arehl, and maybe his sister, Edna," my grandmother says, leaning in closer. "I think it's Edna," she says, in the tone of a doctor diagnosing a disease, as if the verdict was somehow relevant to someone who has only the vaguest idea who Arehl's sister is, or was. Uncle Arehl (I don't know precisely whose uncle he is, or for what the two initials of his name once stood) saunters slowly across a dry, patchy lawn, and the camera follows him. For some reason I'm more interested in the lawn--if it can be called that--than in the people on it. The sun in the movie is blazing, and everyone filmed looks only briefly at the camera before averting their faces once again to look at the stubbly grass. The camera pans once again and I can see an incredibly rutted path leading from the porch to the fence at the edge of the yard, broken pieces of concrete amid deep tire tracks fossilized in sun-baked mud. The fence is low, wire like a chain-link, but lower, with metal stakes holding it up instead of tubes. | What do the boys now know about Uncle Arehl? | Subsequent_state | [
"Whose uncle he was.",
"He had a fence.",
"not enough information",
"He had a sister"
] | 3 |
f062_2 | f062 | 2 | fiction | {
"author": "Shelby Davis",
"title": "nan",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/davissother09This_Is_Not_The_End/0.html"
} | The sound of the clacking grew unbearable, so we turned the volume down.
"Mute it."
We muted it.
"Turn it up; we might miss something."
It's a silent movie. We won't miss anything.
The sound of clacking gradually fills the room as my brother reluctantly turns up the volume. I can tell he's pressing hard on the button, jamming his thumb down in defiance or muted anger. He doesn't like for anyone to tell him what to do with the remote. But my grandmother wants the volume up, so we turn it up.
We're all sitting along the edges of the tiny living room, staring at the fuzzy black-and-white images as they hazily walk across the television screen. I can hear a siren outside, barely discernable and then gone entirely.
"Who's that?" my brother asks, evidently past his momentary and barely-noticeable indignation over the remote.
"Uncle Arehl, and maybe his sister, Edna," my grandmother says, leaning in closer. "I think it's Edna," she says, in the tone of a doctor diagnosing a disease, as if the verdict was somehow relevant to someone who has only the vaguest idea who Arehl's sister is, or was. Uncle Arehl (I don't know precisely whose uncle he is, or for what the two initials of his name once stood) saunters slowly across a dry, patchy lawn, and the camera follows him. For some reason I'm more interested in the lawn--if it can be called that--than in the people on it. The sun in the movie is blazing, and everyone filmed looks only briefly at the camera before averting their faces once again to look at the stubbly grass. The camera pans once again and I can see an incredibly rutted path leading from the porch to the fence at the edge of the yard, broken pieces of concrete amid deep tire tracks fossilized in sun-baked mud. The fence is low, wire like a chain-link, but lower, with metal stakes holding it up instead of tubes. | When did the brothers watch the movie? | Temporal_order | [
"While it was shot",
"not enough information",
"Long after it was shot",
"Before it was shot"
] | 2 |
f062_3 | f062 | 3 | fiction | {
"author": "Shelby Davis",
"title": "nan",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/davissother09This_Is_Not_The_End/0.html"
} | The sound of the clacking grew unbearable, so we turned the volume down.
"Mute it."
We muted it.
"Turn it up; we might miss something."
It's a silent movie. We won't miss anything.
The sound of clacking gradually fills the room as my brother reluctantly turns up the volume. I can tell he's pressing hard on the button, jamming his thumb down in defiance or muted anger. He doesn't like for anyone to tell him what to do with the remote. But my grandmother wants the volume up, so we turn it up.
We're all sitting along the edges of the tiny living room, staring at the fuzzy black-and-white images as they hazily walk across the television screen. I can hear a siren outside, barely discernable and then gone entirely.
"Who's that?" my brother asks, evidently past his momentary and barely-noticeable indignation over the remote.
"Uncle Arehl, and maybe his sister, Edna," my grandmother says, leaning in closer. "I think it's Edna," she says, in the tone of a doctor diagnosing a disease, as if the verdict was somehow relevant to someone who has only the vaguest idea who Arehl's sister is, or was. Uncle Arehl (I don't know precisely whose uncle he is, or for what the two initials of his name once stood) saunters slowly across a dry, patchy lawn, and the camera follows him. For some reason I'm more interested in the lawn--if it can be called that--than in the people on it. The sun in the movie is blazing, and everyone filmed looks only briefly at the camera before averting their faces once again to look at the stubbly grass. The camera pans once again and I can see an incredibly rutted path leading from the porch to the fence at the edge of the yard, broken pieces of concrete amid deep tire tracks fossilized in sun-baked mud. The fence is low, wire like a chain-link, but lower, with metal stakes holding it up instead of tubes. | How long had they been watching the movie? | Event_duration | [
"Less than two hours.",
"A few minutes.",
"An hour.",
"not enough information"
] | 1 |
f062_4 | f062 | 4 | fiction | {
"author": "Shelby Davis",
"title": "nan",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/davissother09This_Is_Not_The_End/0.html"
} | The sound of the clacking grew unbearable, so we turned the volume down.
"Mute it."
We muted it.
"Turn it up; we might miss something."
It's a silent movie. We won't miss anything.
The sound of clacking gradually fills the room as my brother reluctantly turns up the volume. I can tell he's pressing hard on the button, jamming his thumb down in defiance or muted anger. He doesn't like for anyone to tell him what to do with the remote. But my grandmother wants the volume up, so we turn it up.
We're all sitting along the edges of the tiny living room, staring at the fuzzy black-and-white images as they hazily walk across the television screen. I can hear a siren outside, barely discernable and then gone entirely.
"Who's that?" my brother asks, evidently past his momentary and barely-noticeable indignation over the remote.
"Uncle Arehl, and maybe his sister, Edna," my grandmother says, leaning in closer. "I think it's Edna," she says, in the tone of a doctor diagnosing a disease, as if the verdict was somehow relevant to someone who has only the vaguest idea who Arehl's sister is, or was. Uncle Arehl (I don't know precisely whose uncle he is, or for what the two initials of his name once stood) saunters slowly across a dry, patchy lawn, and the camera follows him. For some reason I'm more interested in the lawn--if it can be called that--than in the people on it. The sun in the movie is blazing, and everyone filmed looks only briefly at the camera before averting their faces once again to look at the stubbly grass. The camera pans once again and I can see an incredibly rutted path leading from the porch to the fence at the edge of the yard, broken pieces of concrete amid deep tire tracks fossilized in sun-baked mud. The fence is low, wire like a chain-link, but lower, with metal stakes holding it up instead of tubes. | When did they mute the movie? | Temporal_order | [
"After someone told them to mute it.",
"not enough information",
"Before the movie started.",
"After the sound of the clacking became unbearable."
] | 3 |
f062_5 | f062 | 5 | fiction | {
"author": "Shelby Davis",
"title": "nan",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/davissother09This_Is_Not_The_End/0.html"
} | The sound of the clacking grew unbearable, so we turned the volume down.
"Mute it."
We muted it.
"Turn it up; we might miss something."
It's a silent movie. We won't miss anything.
The sound of clacking gradually fills the room as my brother reluctantly turns up the volume. I can tell he's pressing hard on the button, jamming his thumb down in defiance or muted anger. He doesn't like for anyone to tell him what to do with the remote. But my grandmother wants the volume up, so we turn it up.
We're all sitting along the edges of the tiny living room, staring at the fuzzy black-and-white images as they hazily walk across the television screen. I can hear a siren outside, barely discernable and then gone entirely.
"Who's that?" my brother asks, evidently past his momentary and barely-noticeable indignation over the remote.
"Uncle Arehl, and maybe his sister, Edna," my grandmother says, leaning in closer. "I think it's Edna," she says, in the tone of a doctor diagnosing a disease, as if the verdict was somehow relevant to someone who has only the vaguest idea who Arehl's sister is, or was. Uncle Arehl (I don't know precisely whose uncle he is, or for what the two initials of his name once stood) saunters slowly across a dry, patchy lawn, and the camera follows him. For some reason I'm more interested in the lawn--if it can be called that--than in the people on it. The sun in the movie is blazing, and everyone filmed looks only briefly at the camera before averting their faces once again to look at the stubbly grass. The camera pans once again and I can see an incredibly rutted path leading from the porch to the fence at the edge of the yard, broken pieces of concrete amid deep tire tracks fossilized in sun-baked mud. The fence is low, wire like a chain-link, but lower, with metal stakes holding it up instead of tubes. | How long did the movie last? | Event_duration | [
"not enough information",
"Less than an hour",
"Three hours",
"Over an hour"
] | 1 |
f062_6 | f062 | 6 | fiction | {
"author": "Shelby Davis",
"title": "nan",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/davissother09This_Is_Not_The_End/0.html"
} | The sound of the clacking grew unbearable, so we turned the volume down.
"Mute it."
We muted it.
"Turn it up; we might miss something."
It's a silent movie. We won't miss anything.
The sound of clacking gradually fills the room as my brother reluctantly turns up the volume. I can tell he's pressing hard on the button, jamming his thumb down in defiance or muted anger. He doesn't like for anyone to tell him what to do with the remote. But my grandmother wants the volume up, so we turn it up.
We're all sitting along the edges of the tiny living room, staring at the fuzzy black-and-white images as they hazily walk across the television screen. I can hear a siren outside, barely discernable and then gone entirely.
"Who's that?" my brother asks, evidently past his momentary and barely-noticeable indignation over the remote.
"Uncle Arehl, and maybe his sister, Edna," my grandmother says, leaning in closer. "I think it's Edna," she says, in the tone of a doctor diagnosing a disease, as if the verdict was somehow relevant to someone who has only the vaguest idea who Arehl's sister is, or was. Uncle Arehl (I don't know precisely whose uncle he is, or for what the two initials of his name once stood) saunters slowly across a dry, patchy lawn, and the camera follows him. For some reason I'm more interested in the lawn--if it can be called that--than in the people on it. The sun in the movie is blazing, and everyone filmed looks only briefly at the camera before averting their faces once again to look at the stubbly grass. The camera pans once again and I can see an incredibly rutted path leading from the porch to the fence at the edge of the yard, broken pieces of concrete amid deep tire tracks fossilized in sun-baked mud. The fence is low, wire like a chain-link, but lower, with metal stakes holding it up instead of tubes. | Whose sister is Edna? | Character_identity | [
"Grandmother",
"Arehl",
"Brother",
"not enough information"
] | 1 |
f062_7 | f062 | 7 | fiction | {
"author": "Shelby Davis",
"title": "nan",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/davissother09This_Is_Not_The_End/0.html"
} | The sound of the clacking grew unbearable, so we turned the volume down.
"Mute it."
We muted it.
"Turn it up; we might miss something."
It's a silent movie. We won't miss anything.
The sound of clacking gradually fills the room as my brother reluctantly turns up the volume. I can tell he's pressing hard on the button, jamming his thumb down in defiance or muted anger. He doesn't like for anyone to tell him what to do with the remote. But my grandmother wants the volume up, so we turn it up.
We're all sitting along the edges of the tiny living room, staring at the fuzzy black-and-white images as they hazily walk across the television screen. I can hear a siren outside, barely discernable and then gone entirely.
"Who's that?" my brother asks, evidently past his momentary and barely-noticeable indignation over the remote.
"Uncle Arehl, and maybe his sister, Edna," my grandmother says, leaning in closer. "I think it's Edna," she says, in the tone of a doctor diagnosing a disease, as if the verdict was somehow relevant to someone who has only the vaguest idea who Arehl's sister is, or was. Uncle Arehl (I don't know precisely whose uncle he is, or for what the two initials of his name once stood) saunters slowly across a dry, patchy lawn, and the camera follows him. For some reason I'm more interested in the lawn--if it can be called that--than in the people on it. The sun in the movie is blazing, and everyone filmed looks only briefly at the camera before averting their faces once again to look at the stubbly grass. The camera pans once again and I can see an incredibly rutted path leading from the porch to the fence at the edge of the yard, broken pieces of concrete amid deep tire tracks fossilized in sun-baked mud. The fence is low, wire like a chain-link, but lower, with metal stakes holding it up instead of tubes. | After the end of this story, how does the brother feel? | Subsequent_state | [
"He is moody",
"He forgot about the remote",
"not enough information",
"He is still angry because of the remote"
] | 1 |
f062_8 | f062 | 8 | fiction | {
"author": "Shelby Davis",
"title": "nan",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/davissother09This_Is_Not_The_End/0.html"
} | The sound of the clacking grew unbearable, so we turned the volume down.
"Mute it."
We muted it.
"Turn it up; we might miss something."
It's a silent movie. We won't miss anything.
The sound of clacking gradually fills the room as my brother reluctantly turns up the volume. I can tell he's pressing hard on the button, jamming his thumb down in defiance or muted anger. He doesn't like for anyone to tell him what to do with the remote. But my grandmother wants the volume up, so we turn it up.
We're all sitting along the edges of the tiny living room, staring at the fuzzy black-and-white images as they hazily walk across the television screen. I can hear a siren outside, barely discernable and then gone entirely.
"Who's that?" my brother asks, evidently past his momentary and barely-noticeable indignation over the remote.
"Uncle Arehl, and maybe his sister, Edna," my grandmother says, leaning in closer. "I think it's Edna," she says, in the tone of a doctor diagnosing a disease, as if the verdict was somehow relevant to someone who has only the vaguest idea who Arehl's sister is, or was. Uncle Arehl (I don't know precisely whose uncle he is, or for what the two initials of his name once stood) saunters slowly across a dry, patchy lawn, and the camera follows him. For some reason I'm more interested in the lawn--if it can be called that--than in the people on it. The sun in the movie is blazing, and everyone filmed looks only briefly at the camera before averting their faces once again to look at the stubbly grass. The camera pans once again and I can see an incredibly rutted path leading from the porch to the fence at the edge of the yard, broken pieces of concrete amid deep tire tracks fossilized in sun-baked mud. The fence is low, wire like a chain-link, but lower, with metal stakes holding it up instead of tubes. | What did the lawn look like? | Factual | [
"Lush",
"Nice",
"not enough information",
"Dry and patchy."
] | 3 |
f062_9 | f062 | 9 | fiction | {
"author": "Shelby Davis",
"title": "nan",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/davissother09This_Is_Not_The_End/0.html"
} | The sound of the clacking grew unbearable, so we turned the volume down.
"Mute it."
We muted it.
"Turn it up; we might miss something."
It's a silent movie. We won't miss anything.
The sound of clacking gradually fills the room as my brother reluctantly turns up the volume. I can tell he's pressing hard on the button, jamming his thumb down in defiance or muted anger. He doesn't like for anyone to tell him what to do with the remote. But my grandmother wants the volume up, so we turn it up.
We're all sitting along the edges of the tiny living room, staring at the fuzzy black-and-white images as they hazily walk across the television screen. I can hear a siren outside, barely discernable and then gone entirely.
"Who's that?" my brother asks, evidently past his momentary and barely-noticeable indignation over the remote.
"Uncle Arehl, and maybe his sister, Edna," my grandmother says, leaning in closer. "I think it's Edna," she says, in the tone of a doctor diagnosing a disease, as if the verdict was somehow relevant to someone who has only the vaguest idea who Arehl's sister is, or was. Uncle Arehl (I don't know precisely whose uncle he is, or for what the two initials of his name once stood) saunters slowly across a dry, patchy lawn, and the camera follows him. For some reason I'm more interested in the lawn--if it can be called that--than in the people on it. The sun in the movie is blazing, and everyone filmed looks only briefly at the camera before averting their faces once again to look at the stubbly grass. The camera pans once again and I can see an incredibly rutted path leading from the porch to the fence at the edge of the yard, broken pieces of concrete amid deep tire tracks fossilized in sun-baked mud. The fence is low, wire like a chain-link, but lower, with metal stakes holding it up instead of tubes. | Who believes that there is no use for audio in a silent movie? | Belief_states | [
"not enough information",
"The brother",
"Grandmother",
"Edna"
] | 1 |
f062_10 | f062 | 10 | fiction | {
"author": "Shelby Davis",
"title": "nan",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/davissother09This_Is_Not_The_End/0.html"
} | The sound of the clacking grew unbearable, so we turned the volume down.
"Mute it."
We muted it.
"Turn it up; we might miss something."
It's a silent movie. We won't miss anything.
The sound of clacking gradually fills the room as my brother reluctantly turns up the volume. I can tell he's pressing hard on the button, jamming his thumb down in defiance or muted anger. He doesn't like for anyone to tell him what to do with the remote. But my grandmother wants the volume up, so we turn it up.
We're all sitting along the edges of the tiny living room, staring at the fuzzy black-and-white images as they hazily walk across the television screen. I can hear a siren outside, barely discernable and then gone entirely.
"Who's that?" my brother asks, evidently past his momentary and barely-noticeable indignation over the remote.
"Uncle Arehl, and maybe his sister, Edna," my grandmother says, leaning in closer. "I think it's Edna," she says, in the tone of a doctor diagnosing a disease, as if the verdict was somehow relevant to someone who has only the vaguest idea who Arehl's sister is, or was. Uncle Arehl (I don't know precisely whose uncle he is, or for what the two initials of his name once stood) saunters slowly across a dry, patchy lawn, and the camera follows him. For some reason I'm more interested in the lawn--if it can be called that--than in the people on it. The sun in the movie is blazing, and everyone filmed looks only briefly at the camera before averting their faces once again to look at the stubbly grass. The camera pans once again and I can see an incredibly rutted path leading from the porch to the fence at the edge of the yard, broken pieces of concrete amid deep tire tracks fossilized in sun-baked mud. The fence is low, wire like a chain-link, but lower, with metal stakes holding it up instead of tubes. | What is it like outside in the movie? | Entity_properties | [
"There are ambulances",
"There are police cars",
"not enough information",
"It is dry and hot."
] | 3 |
f062_11 | f062 | 11 | fiction | {
"author": "Shelby Davis",
"title": "nan",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/davissother09This_Is_Not_The_End/0.html"
} | The sound of the clacking grew unbearable, so we turned the volume down.
"Mute it."
We muted it.
"Turn it up; we might miss something."
It's a silent movie. We won't miss anything.
The sound of clacking gradually fills the room as my brother reluctantly turns up the volume. I can tell he's pressing hard on the button, jamming his thumb down in defiance or muted anger. He doesn't like for anyone to tell him what to do with the remote. But my grandmother wants the volume up, so we turn it up.
We're all sitting along the edges of the tiny living room, staring at the fuzzy black-and-white images as they hazily walk across the television screen. I can hear a siren outside, barely discernable and then gone entirely.
"Who's that?" my brother asks, evidently past his momentary and barely-noticeable indignation over the remote.
"Uncle Arehl, and maybe his sister, Edna," my grandmother says, leaning in closer. "I think it's Edna," she says, in the tone of a doctor diagnosing a disease, as if the verdict was somehow relevant to someone who has only the vaguest idea who Arehl's sister is, or was. Uncle Arehl (I don't know precisely whose uncle he is, or for what the two initials of his name once stood) saunters slowly across a dry, patchy lawn, and the camera follows him. For some reason I'm more interested in the lawn--if it can be called that--than in the people on it. The sun in the movie is blazing, and everyone filmed looks only briefly at the camera before averting their faces once again to look at the stubbly grass. The camera pans once again and I can see an incredibly rutted path leading from the porch to the fence at the edge of the yard, broken pieces of concrete amid deep tire tracks fossilized in sun-baked mud. The fence is low, wire like a chain-link, but lower, with metal stakes holding it up instead of tubes. | What kind of movie did the characters watch? | Factual | [
"A fencing movie",
"A gardening movie",
"A family movie",
"not enough information"
] | 2 |
f062_12 | f062 | 12 | fiction | {
"author": "Shelby Davis",
"title": "nan",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/davissother09This_Is_Not_The_End/0.html"
} | The sound of the clacking grew unbearable, so we turned the volume down.
"Mute it."
We muted it.
"Turn it up; we might miss something."
It's a silent movie. We won't miss anything.
The sound of clacking gradually fills the room as my brother reluctantly turns up the volume. I can tell he's pressing hard on the button, jamming his thumb down in defiance or muted anger. He doesn't like for anyone to tell him what to do with the remote. But my grandmother wants the volume up, so we turn it up.
We're all sitting along the edges of the tiny living room, staring at the fuzzy black-and-white images as they hazily walk across the television screen. I can hear a siren outside, barely discernable and then gone entirely.
"Who's that?" my brother asks, evidently past his momentary and barely-noticeable indignation over the remote.
"Uncle Arehl, and maybe his sister, Edna," my grandmother says, leaning in closer. "I think it's Edna," she says, in the tone of a doctor diagnosing a disease, as if the verdict was somehow relevant to someone who has only the vaguest idea who Arehl's sister is, or was. Uncle Arehl (I don't know precisely whose uncle he is, or for what the two initials of his name once stood) saunters slowly across a dry, patchy lawn, and the camera follows him. For some reason I'm more interested in the lawn--if it can be called that--than in the people on it. The sun in the movie is blazing, and everyone filmed looks only briefly at the camera before averting their faces once again to look at the stubbly grass. The camera pans once again and I can see an incredibly rutted path leading from the porch to the fence at the edge of the yard, broken pieces of concrete amid deep tire tracks fossilized in sun-baked mud. The fence is low, wire like a chain-link, but lower, with metal stakes holding it up instead of tubes. | Who wanted the volume up? | Belief_states | [
"not enough information",
"Grandmother",
"The narrator.",
"The brother."
] | 1 |
f062_13 | f062 | 13 | fiction | {
"author": "Shelby Davis",
"title": "nan",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/davissother09This_Is_Not_The_End/0.html"
} | The sound of the clacking grew unbearable, so we turned the volume down.
"Mute it."
We muted it.
"Turn it up; we might miss something."
It's a silent movie. We won't miss anything.
The sound of clacking gradually fills the room as my brother reluctantly turns up the volume. I can tell he's pressing hard on the button, jamming his thumb down in defiance or muted anger. He doesn't like for anyone to tell him what to do with the remote. But my grandmother wants the volume up, so we turn it up.
We're all sitting along the edges of the tiny living room, staring at the fuzzy black-and-white images as they hazily walk across the television screen. I can hear a siren outside, barely discernable and then gone entirely.
"Who's that?" my brother asks, evidently past his momentary and barely-noticeable indignation over the remote.
"Uncle Arehl, and maybe his sister, Edna," my grandmother says, leaning in closer. "I think it's Edna," she says, in the tone of a doctor diagnosing a disease, as if the verdict was somehow relevant to someone who has only the vaguest idea who Arehl's sister is, or was. Uncle Arehl (I don't know precisely whose uncle he is, or for what the two initials of his name once stood) saunters slowly across a dry, patchy lawn, and the camera follows him. For some reason I'm more interested in the lawn--if it can be called that--than in the people on it. The sun in the movie is blazing, and everyone filmed looks only briefly at the camera before averting their faces once again to look at the stubbly grass. The camera pans once again and I can see an incredibly rutted path leading from the porch to the fence at the edge of the yard, broken pieces of concrete amid deep tire tracks fossilized in sun-baked mud. The fence is low, wire like a chain-link, but lower, with metal stakes holding it up instead of tubes. | Who was sitting in the living room? | Character_identity | [
"The narrator, his brother, and his grandmother.",
"Family members.",
"Three people who are related.",
"not enough information"
] | 0 |
f062_14 | f062 | 14 | fiction | {
"author": "Shelby Davis",
"title": "nan",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/davissother09This_Is_Not_The_End/0.html"
} | The sound of the clacking grew unbearable, so we turned the volume down.
"Mute it."
We muted it.
"Turn it up; we might miss something."
It's a silent movie. We won't miss anything.
The sound of clacking gradually fills the room as my brother reluctantly turns up the volume. I can tell he's pressing hard on the button, jamming his thumb down in defiance or muted anger. He doesn't like for anyone to tell him what to do with the remote. But my grandmother wants the volume up, so we turn it up.
We're all sitting along the edges of the tiny living room, staring at the fuzzy black-and-white images as they hazily walk across the television screen. I can hear a siren outside, barely discernable and then gone entirely.
"Who's that?" my brother asks, evidently past his momentary and barely-noticeable indignation over the remote.
"Uncle Arehl, and maybe his sister, Edna," my grandmother says, leaning in closer. "I think it's Edna," she says, in the tone of a doctor diagnosing a disease, as if the verdict was somehow relevant to someone who has only the vaguest idea who Arehl's sister is, or was. Uncle Arehl (I don't know precisely whose uncle he is, or for what the two initials of his name once stood) saunters slowly across a dry, patchy lawn, and the camera follows him. For some reason I'm more interested in the lawn--if it can be called that--than in the people on it. The sun in the movie is blazing, and everyone filmed looks only briefly at the camera before averting their faces once again to look at the stubbly grass. The camera pans once again and I can see an incredibly rutted path leading from the porch to the fence at the edge of the yard, broken pieces of concrete amid deep tire tracks fossilized in sun-baked mud. The fence is low, wire like a chain-link, but lower, with metal stakes holding it up instead of tubes. | Who is Uncle Arehl? | Unanswerable | [
"Grandmother's uncle.",
"not enough information",
"Grandmother's brother-in-law.",
"Grandmother's brother."
] | 1 |
f062_15 | f062 | 15 | fiction | {
"author": "Shelby Davis",
"title": "nan",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/davissother09This_Is_Not_The_End/0.html"
} | The sound of the clacking grew unbearable, so we turned the volume down.
"Mute it."
We muted it.
"Turn it up; we might miss something."
It's a silent movie. We won't miss anything.
The sound of clacking gradually fills the room as my brother reluctantly turns up the volume. I can tell he's pressing hard on the button, jamming his thumb down in defiance or muted anger. He doesn't like for anyone to tell him what to do with the remote. But my grandmother wants the volume up, so we turn it up.
We're all sitting along the edges of the tiny living room, staring at the fuzzy black-and-white images as they hazily walk across the television screen. I can hear a siren outside, barely discernable and then gone entirely.
"Who's that?" my brother asks, evidently past his momentary and barely-noticeable indignation over the remote.
"Uncle Arehl, and maybe his sister, Edna," my grandmother says, leaning in closer. "I think it's Edna," she says, in the tone of a doctor diagnosing a disease, as if the verdict was somehow relevant to someone who has only the vaguest idea who Arehl's sister is, or was. Uncle Arehl (I don't know precisely whose uncle he is, or for what the two initials of his name once stood) saunters slowly across a dry, patchy lawn, and the camera follows him. For some reason I'm more interested in the lawn--if it can be called that--than in the people on it. The sun in the movie is blazing, and everyone filmed looks only briefly at the camera before averting their faces once again to look at the stubbly grass. The camera pans once again and I can see an incredibly rutted path leading from the porch to the fence at the edge of the yard, broken pieces of concrete amid deep tire tracks fossilized in sun-baked mud. The fence is low, wire like a chain-link, but lower, with metal stakes holding it up instead of tubes. | Whose aunt was Edna? | Unanswerable | [
"Narrator",
"Grandmother",
"not enough information",
"Arehl"
] | 2 |
f062_16 | f062 | 16 | fiction | {
"author": "Shelby Davis",
"title": "nan",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/davissother09This_Is_Not_The_End/0.html"
} | The sound of the clacking grew unbearable, so we turned the volume down.
"Mute it."
We muted it.
"Turn it up; we might miss something."
It's a silent movie. We won't miss anything.
The sound of clacking gradually fills the room as my brother reluctantly turns up the volume. I can tell he's pressing hard on the button, jamming his thumb down in defiance or muted anger. He doesn't like for anyone to tell him what to do with the remote. But my grandmother wants the volume up, so we turn it up.
We're all sitting along the edges of the tiny living room, staring at the fuzzy black-and-white images as they hazily walk across the television screen. I can hear a siren outside, barely discernable and then gone entirely.
"Who's that?" my brother asks, evidently past his momentary and barely-noticeable indignation over the remote.
"Uncle Arehl, and maybe his sister, Edna," my grandmother says, leaning in closer. "I think it's Edna," she says, in the tone of a doctor diagnosing a disease, as if the verdict was somehow relevant to someone who has only the vaguest idea who Arehl's sister is, or was. Uncle Arehl (I don't know precisely whose uncle he is, or for what the two initials of his name once stood) saunters slowly across a dry, patchy lawn, and the camera follows him. For some reason I'm more interested in the lawn--if it can be called that--than in the people on it. The sun in the movie is blazing, and everyone filmed looks only briefly at the camera before averting their faces once again to look at the stubbly grass. The camera pans once again and I can see an incredibly rutted path leading from the porch to the fence at the edge of the yard, broken pieces of concrete amid deep tire tracks fossilized in sun-baked mud. The fence is low, wire like a chain-link, but lower, with metal stakes holding it up instead of tubes. | Who is the oldest person in the room>? | Entity_properties | [
"not enough information",
"The grandmother",
"The brother",
"The narrator"
] | 1 |
f062_17 | f062 | 17 | fiction | {
"author": "Shelby Davis",
"title": "nan",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/davissother09This_Is_Not_The_End/0.html"
} | The sound of the clacking grew unbearable, so we turned the volume down.
"Mute it."
We muted it.
"Turn it up; we might miss something."
It's a silent movie. We won't miss anything.
The sound of clacking gradually fills the room as my brother reluctantly turns up the volume. I can tell he's pressing hard on the button, jamming his thumb down in defiance or muted anger. He doesn't like for anyone to tell him what to do with the remote. But my grandmother wants the volume up, so we turn it up.
We're all sitting along the edges of the tiny living room, staring at the fuzzy black-and-white images as they hazily walk across the television screen. I can hear a siren outside, barely discernable and then gone entirely.
"Who's that?" my brother asks, evidently past his momentary and barely-noticeable indignation over the remote.
"Uncle Arehl, and maybe his sister, Edna," my grandmother says, leaning in closer. "I think it's Edna," she says, in the tone of a doctor diagnosing a disease, as if the verdict was somehow relevant to someone who has only the vaguest idea who Arehl's sister is, or was. Uncle Arehl (I don't know precisely whose uncle he is, or for what the two initials of his name once stood) saunters slowly across a dry, patchy lawn, and the camera follows him. For some reason I'm more interested in the lawn--if it can be called that--than in the people on it. The sun in the movie is blazing, and everyone filmed looks only briefly at the camera before averting their faces once again to look at the stubbly grass. The camera pans once again and I can see an incredibly rutted path leading from the porch to the fence at the edge of the yard, broken pieces of concrete amid deep tire tracks fossilized in sun-baked mud. The fence is low, wire like a chain-link, but lower, with metal stakes holding it up instead of tubes. | Why was the narrator's brother angry? | Causality | [
"Because he wanted to hear the siren",
"not enough information",
"Because he was told to turn the volume up",
"Because he hated silent movies"
] | 2 |
f063_0 | f063 | 0 | fiction | {
"author": "Mary Robinette Kowal",
"title": "This Little Pig",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/kowalmother08This_little_pig-MRK/0.html"
} | Aage Llievang tried explaining to his mother, but she shook her head. "Now, Aage. Really. Your own car? A car? What would the other co-op members think?"
"Mom, this is a classic! 1952 MG-TD. It's even--"
"British Racing green... yes, Aage. I know. Your father knows. Your grandmother knows. We all know about the car."
"But Mom, look." He waved his Handy at her. The MG glowed on its small screen. "There's one up for auction on carsforsale.com and I'm too young to bid. You've got to help me."
"Aage!" She put her hands on her hips and shook her head. "Your age is not the problem. You can't even afford it."
"I'd pay you back." How could he explain his fascination with the Vehicular Age to her? The seductive sheen, the rumble, the combustive power of automobiles called to him like a siren at sea. He coveted the sense of possibility inherent in the turn of a key.
And the MG-TD held a place high in his list of hope. British Racing Green, wood dashboard and a four-stroke engine. He had only seen one MG-TD, when he'd gone on holiday with his folks to the U.K. They had been walking down the street in downtown London. Most of the traffic had been pedestrian or cyclist. The occasional fuel-cell car glided by like a ghostly leftover from the Vehicular Age. Double-decker biodiesel buses roared past regularly, trailing the odor of fish and chips after them.
And then it came down the street toward them. A car that purred as its rounded lines soaked up the sun with a green so deep it was almost black. It pulled into the valet parking of a grand hotel and two people got out. Aage barely noticed them. He stared inside the car, where chrome and brass gleamed against a burled wood dashboard. The doors of the car shut with the heavy thunk of real metal. A valet pulled the car out of the parking circle and Aage never saw it again. | Who's impression was Aage's mom concerned about in regards to Aage having his own car? | Belief_states | [
"Aage's father",
"not enough information",
"The other Co-op members",
"Aage's grandmother"
] | 2 |
f063_1 | f063 | 1 | fiction | {
"author": "Mary Robinette Kowal",
"title": "This Little Pig",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/kowalmother08This_little_pig-MRK/0.html"
} | Aage Llievang tried explaining to his mother, but she shook her head. "Now, Aage. Really. Your own car? A car? What would the other co-op members think?"
"Mom, this is a classic! 1952 MG-TD. It's even--"
"British Racing green... yes, Aage. I know. Your father knows. Your grandmother knows. We all know about the car."
"But Mom, look." He waved his Handy at her. The MG glowed on its small screen. "There's one up for auction on carsforsale.com and I'm too young to bid. You've got to help me."
"Aage!" She put her hands on her hips and shook her head. "Your age is not the problem. You can't even afford it."
"I'd pay you back." How could he explain his fascination with the Vehicular Age to her? The seductive sheen, the rumble, the combustive power of automobiles called to him like a siren at sea. He coveted the sense of possibility inherent in the turn of a key.
And the MG-TD held a place high in his list of hope. British Racing Green, wood dashboard and a four-stroke engine. He had only seen one MG-TD, when he'd gone on holiday with his folks to the U.K. They had been walking down the street in downtown London. Most of the traffic had been pedestrian or cyclist. The occasional fuel-cell car glided by like a ghostly leftover from the Vehicular Age. Double-decker biodiesel buses roared past regularly, trailing the odor of fish and chips after them.
And then it came down the street toward them. A car that purred as its rounded lines soaked up the sun with a green so deep it was almost black. It pulled into the valet parking of a grand hotel and two people got out. Aage barely noticed them. He stared inside the car, where chrome and brass gleamed against a burled wood dashboard. The doors of the car shut with the heavy thunk of real metal. A valet pulled the car out of the parking circle and Aage never saw it again. | At the end of the story, Aage's mom most likely: | Subsequent_state | [
"Buys herself the MG-TD car",
"Buys Aage the MG-TD car",
"not enough information",
"Does not bid on the car auction for him"
] | 3 |
f063_2 | f063 | 2 | fiction | {
"author": "Mary Robinette Kowal",
"title": "This Little Pig",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/kowalmother08This_little_pig-MRK/0.html"
} | Aage Llievang tried explaining to his mother, but she shook her head. "Now, Aage. Really. Your own car? A car? What would the other co-op members think?"
"Mom, this is a classic! 1952 MG-TD. It's even--"
"British Racing green... yes, Aage. I know. Your father knows. Your grandmother knows. We all know about the car."
"But Mom, look." He waved his Handy at her. The MG glowed on its small screen. "There's one up for auction on carsforsale.com and I'm too young to bid. You've got to help me."
"Aage!" She put her hands on her hips and shook her head. "Your age is not the problem. You can't even afford it."
"I'd pay you back." How could he explain his fascination with the Vehicular Age to her? The seductive sheen, the rumble, the combustive power of automobiles called to him like a siren at sea. He coveted the sense of possibility inherent in the turn of a key.
And the MG-TD held a place high in his list of hope. British Racing Green, wood dashboard and a four-stroke engine. He had only seen one MG-TD, when he'd gone on holiday with his folks to the U.K. They had been walking down the street in downtown London. Most of the traffic had been pedestrian or cyclist. The occasional fuel-cell car glided by like a ghostly leftover from the Vehicular Age. Double-decker biodiesel buses roared past regularly, trailing the odor of fish and chips after them.
And then it came down the street toward them. A car that purred as its rounded lines soaked up the sun with a green so deep it was almost black. It pulled into the valet parking of a grand hotel and two people got out. Aage barely noticed them. He stared inside the car, where chrome and brass gleamed against a burled wood dashboard. The doors of the car shut with the heavy thunk of real metal. A valet pulled the car out of the parking circle and Aage never saw it again. | Who wanted to buy a 1952 MG-TD? | Character_identity | [
"not enough information",
"Aage's mother",
"Aage",
"Aage's grandmother"
] | 2 |
f063_3 | f063 | 3 | fiction | {
"author": "Mary Robinette Kowal",
"title": "This Little Pig",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/kowalmother08This_little_pig-MRK/0.html"
} | Aage Llievang tried explaining to his mother, but she shook her head. "Now, Aage. Really. Your own car? A car? What would the other co-op members think?"
"Mom, this is a classic! 1952 MG-TD. It's even--"
"British Racing green... yes, Aage. I know. Your father knows. Your grandmother knows. We all know about the car."
"But Mom, look." He waved his Handy at her. The MG glowed on its small screen. "There's one up for auction on carsforsale.com and I'm too young to bid. You've got to help me."
"Aage!" She put her hands on her hips and shook her head. "Your age is not the problem. You can't even afford it."
"I'd pay you back." How could he explain his fascination with the Vehicular Age to her? The seductive sheen, the rumble, the combustive power of automobiles called to him like a siren at sea. He coveted the sense of possibility inherent in the turn of a key.
And the MG-TD held a place high in his list of hope. British Racing Green, wood dashboard and a four-stroke engine. He had only seen one MG-TD, when he'd gone on holiday with his folks to the U.K. They had been walking down the street in downtown London. Most of the traffic had been pedestrian or cyclist. The occasional fuel-cell car glided by like a ghostly leftover from the Vehicular Age. Double-decker biodiesel buses roared past regularly, trailing the odor of fish and chips after them.
And then it came down the street toward them. A car that purred as its rounded lines soaked up the sun with a green so deep it was almost black. It pulled into the valet parking of a grand hotel and two people got out. Aage barely noticed them. He stared inside the car, where chrome and brass gleamed against a burled wood dashboard. The doors of the car shut with the heavy thunk of real metal. A valet pulled the car out of the parking circle and Aage never saw it again. | When did Aage see his first MG-TD? | Temporal_order | [
"On holiday with his folks in the U.K.",
"not enough information",
"Prior to ever going on holiday in the U.K.",
"After coming back from holiday in the U.K."
] | 0 |
f063_4 | f063 | 4 | fiction | {
"author": "Mary Robinette Kowal",
"title": "This Little Pig",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/kowalmother08This_little_pig-MRK/0.html"
} | Aage Llievang tried explaining to his mother, but she shook her head. "Now, Aage. Really. Your own car? A car? What would the other co-op members think?"
"Mom, this is a classic! 1952 MG-TD. It's even--"
"British Racing green... yes, Aage. I know. Your father knows. Your grandmother knows. We all know about the car."
"But Mom, look." He waved his Handy at her. The MG glowed on its small screen. "There's one up for auction on carsforsale.com and I'm too young to bid. You've got to help me."
"Aage!" She put her hands on her hips and shook her head. "Your age is not the problem. You can't even afford it."
"I'd pay you back." How could he explain his fascination with the Vehicular Age to her? The seductive sheen, the rumble, the combustive power of automobiles called to him like a siren at sea. He coveted the sense of possibility inherent in the turn of a key.
And the MG-TD held a place high in his list of hope. British Racing Green, wood dashboard and a four-stroke engine. He had only seen one MG-TD, when he'd gone on holiday with his folks to the U.K. They had been walking down the street in downtown London. Most of the traffic had been pedestrian or cyclist. The occasional fuel-cell car glided by like a ghostly leftover from the Vehicular Age. Double-decker biodiesel buses roared past regularly, trailing the odor of fish and chips after them.
And then it came down the street toward them. A car that purred as its rounded lines soaked up the sun with a green so deep it was almost black. It pulled into the valet parking of a grand hotel and two people got out. Aage barely noticed them. He stared inside the car, where chrome and brass gleamed against a burled wood dashboard. The doors of the car shut with the heavy thunk of real metal. A valet pulled the car out of the parking circle and Aage never saw it again. | Why did Aages mom not want to bid on the car for him? | Causality | [
"Aage cannot afford the car",
"Aage drives too fast",
"Aage is too young",
"not enough information"
] | 2 |
f063_5 | f063 | 5 | fiction | {
"author": "Mary Robinette Kowal",
"title": "This Little Pig",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/kowalmother08This_little_pig-MRK/0.html"
} | Aage Llievang tried explaining to his mother, but she shook her head. "Now, Aage. Really. Your own car? A car? What would the other co-op members think?"
"Mom, this is a classic! 1952 MG-TD. It's even--"
"British Racing green... yes, Aage. I know. Your father knows. Your grandmother knows. We all know about the car."
"But Mom, look." He waved his Handy at her. The MG glowed on its small screen. "There's one up for auction on carsforsale.com and I'm too young to bid. You've got to help me."
"Aage!" She put her hands on her hips and shook her head. "Your age is not the problem. You can't even afford it."
"I'd pay you back." How could he explain his fascination with the Vehicular Age to her? The seductive sheen, the rumble, the combustive power of automobiles called to him like a siren at sea. He coveted the sense of possibility inherent in the turn of a key.
And the MG-TD held a place high in his list of hope. British Racing Green, wood dashboard and a four-stroke engine. He had only seen one MG-TD, when he'd gone on holiday with his folks to the U.K. They had been walking down the street in downtown London. Most of the traffic had been pedestrian or cyclist. The occasional fuel-cell car glided by like a ghostly leftover from the Vehicular Age. Double-decker biodiesel buses roared past regularly, trailing the odor of fish and chips after them.
And then it came down the street toward them. A car that purred as its rounded lines soaked up the sun with a green so deep it was almost black. It pulled into the valet parking of a grand hotel and two people got out. Aage barely noticed them. He stared inside the car, where chrome and brass gleamed against a burled wood dashboard. The doors of the car shut with the heavy thunk of real metal. A valet pulled the car out of the parking circle and Aage never saw it again. | Who were the two people that got out of the car that Aage saw in London? | Unanswerable | [
"Aage's mother and grandmother",
"Aage's mother and father",
"Aage's grandmother and father",
"not enough information"
] | 3 |
f063_6 | f063 | 6 | fiction | {
"author": "Mary Robinette Kowal",
"title": "This Little Pig",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/kowalmother08This_little_pig-MRK/0.html"
} | Aage Llievang tried explaining to his mother, but she shook her head. "Now, Aage. Really. Your own car? A car? What would the other co-op members think?"
"Mom, this is a classic! 1952 MG-TD. It's even--"
"British Racing green... yes, Aage. I know. Your father knows. Your grandmother knows. We all know about the car."
"But Mom, look." He waved his Handy at her. The MG glowed on its small screen. "There's one up for auction on carsforsale.com and I'm too young to bid. You've got to help me."
"Aage!" She put her hands on her hips and shook her head. "Your age is not the problem. You can't even afford it."
"I'd pay you back." How could he explain his fascination with the Vehicular Age to her? The seductive sheen, the rumble, the combustive power of automobiles called to him like a siren at sea. He coveted the sense of possibility inherent in the turn of a key.
And the MG-TD held a place high in his list of hope. British Racing Green, wood dashboard and a four-stroke engine. He had only seen one MG-TD, when he'd gone on holiday with his folks to the U.K. They had been walking down the street in downtown London. Most of the traffic had been pedestrian or cyclist. The occasional fuel-cell car glided by like a ghostly leftover from the Vehicular Age. Double-decker biodiesel buses roared past regularly, trailing the odor of fish and chips after them.
And then it came down the street toward them. A car that purred as its rounded lines soaked up the sun with a green so deep it was almost black. It pulled into the valet parking of a grand hotel and two people got out. Aage barely noticed them. He stared inside the car, where chrome and brass gleamed against a burled wood dashboard. The doors of the car shut with the heavy thunk of real metal. A valet pulled the car out of the parking circle and Aage never saw it again. | What is most likely true about Aage? | Entity_properties | [
"not enough information",
"He is under the age of 18",
"He is unable to drive a car",
"He has a job"
] | 1 |
f063_7 | f063 | 7 | fiction | {
"author": "Mary Robinette Kowal",
"title": "This Little Pig",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/kowalmother08This_little_pig-MRK/0.html"
} | Aage Llievang tried explaining to his mother, but she shook her head. "Now, Aage. Really. Your own car? A car? What would the other co-op members think?"
"Mom, this is a classic! 1952 MG-TD. It's even--"
"British Racing green... yes, Aage. I know. Your father knows. Your grandmother knows. We all know about the car."
"But Mom, look." He waved his Handy at her. The MG glowed on its small screen. "There's one up for auction on carsforsale.com and I'm too young to bid. You've got to help me."
"Aage!" She put her hands on her hips and shook her head. "Your age is not the problem. You can't even afford it."
"I'd pay you back." How could he explain his fascination with the Vehicular Age to her? The seductive sheen, the rumble, the combustive power of automobiles called to him like a siren at sea. He coveted the sense of possibility inherent in the turn of a key.
And the MG-TD held a place high in his list of hope. British Racing Green, wood dashboard and a four-stroke engine. He had only seen one MG-TD, when he'd gone on holiday with his folks to the U.K. They had been walking down the street in downtown London. Most of the traffic had been pedestrian or cyclist. The occasional fuel-cell car glided by like a ghostly leftover from the Vehicular Age. Double-decker biodiesel buses roared past regularly, trailing the odor of fish and chips after them.
And then it came down the street toward them. A car that purred as its rounded lines soaked up the sun with a green so deep it was almost black. It pulled into the valet parking of a grand hotel and two people got out. Aage barely noticed them. He stared inside the car, where chrome and brass gleamed against a burled wood dashboard. The doors of the car shut with the heavy thunk of real metal. A valet pulled the car out of the parking circle and Aage never saw it again. | After the end of this story, Aage is experiencing: | Subsequent_state | [
"Longing",
"not enough information",
"The security of having enough funds to afford multiple cars",
"The joy of driving his new car"
] | 0 |
f063_8 | f063 | 8 | fiction | {
"author": "Mary Robinette Kowal",
"title": "This Little Pig",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/kowalmother08This_little_pig-MRK/0.html"
} | Aage Llievang tried explaining to his mother, but she shook her head. "Now, Aage. Really. Your own car? A car? What would the other co-op members think?"
"Mom, this is a classic! 1952 MG-TD. It's even--"
"British Racing green... yes, Aage. I know. Your father knows. Your grandmother knows. We all know about the car."
"But Mom, look." He waved his Handy at her. The MG glowed on its small screen. "There's one up for auction on carsforsale.com and I'm too young to bid. You've got to help me."
"Aage!" She put her hands on her hips and shook her head. "Your age is not the problem. You can't even afford it."
"I'd pay you back." How could he explain his fascination with the Vehicular Age to her? The seductive sheen, the rumble, the combustive power of automobiles called to him like a siren at sea. He coveted the sense of possibility inherent in the turn of a key.
And the MG-TD held a place high in his list of hope. British Racing Green, wood dashboard and a four-stroke engine. He had only seen one MG-TD, when he'd gone on holiday with his folks to the U.K. They had been walking down the street in downtown London. Most of the traffic had been pedestrian or cyclist. The occasional fuel-cell car glided by like a ghostly leftover from the Vehicular Age. Double-decker biodiesel buses roared past regularly, trailing the odor of fish and chips after them.
And then it came down the street toward them. A car that purred as its rounded lines soaked up the sun with a green so deep it was almost black. It pulled into the valet parking of a grand hotel and two people got out. Aage barely noticed them. He stared inside the car, where chrome and brass gleamed against a burled wood dashboard. The doors of the car shut with the heavy thunk of real metal. A valet pulled the car out of the parking circle and Aage never saw it again. | The conversation between Aage and his mother most likely lasted: | Event_duration | [
"Several minutes",
"not enough information",
"Many days",
"A week"
] | 0 |
f063_9 | f063 | 9 | fiction | {
"author": "Mary Robinette Kowal",
"title": "This Little Pig",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/kowalmother08This_little_pig-MRK/0.html"
} | Aage Llievang tried explaining to his mother, but she shook her head. "Now, Aage. Really. Your own car? A car? What would the other co-op members think?"
"Mom, this is a classic! 1952 MG-TD. It's even--"
"British Racing green... yes, Aage. I know. Your father knows. Your grandmother knows. We all know about the car."
"But Mom, look." He waved his Handy at her. The MG glowed on its small screen. "There's one up for auction on carsforsale.com and I'm too young to bid. You've got to help me."
"Aage!" She put her hands on her hips and shook her head. "Your age is not the problem. You can't even afford it."
"I'd pay you back." How could he explain his fascination with the Vehicular Age to her? The seductive sheen, the rumble, the combustive power of automobiles called to him like a siren at sea. He coveted the sense of possibility inherent in the turn of a key.
And the MG-TD held a place high in his list of hope. British Racing Green, wood dashboard and a four-stroke engine. He had only seen one MG-TD, when he'd gone on holiday with his folks to the U.K. They had been walking down the street in downtown London. Most of the traffic had been pedestrian or cyclist. The occasional fuel-cell car glided by like a ghostly leftover from the Vehicular Age. Double-decker biodiesel buses roared past regularly, trailing the odor of fish and chips after them.
And then it came down the street toward them. A car that purred as its rounded lines soaked up the sun with a green so deep it was almost black. It pulled into the valet parking of a grand hotel and two people got out. Aage barely noticed them. He stared inside the car, where chrome and brass gleamed against a burled wood dashboard. The doors of the car shut with the heavy thunk of real metal. A valet pulled the car out of the parking circle and Aage never saw it again. | How does Aage feel about old-fashioned craftmanship? | Entity_properties | [
"He finds it fascinating",
"not enough information",
"He hasn't spent any time considering it and doesn't have a strong opinion",
"He doesn't see the point when you could get something far more advanced more easily"
] | 0 |
f063_10 | f063 | 10 | fiction | {
"author": "Mary Robinette Kowal",
"title": "This Little Pig",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/kowalmother08This_little_pig-MRK/0.html"
} | Aage Llievang tried explaining to his mother, but she shook her head. "Now, Aage. Really. Your own car? A car? What would the other co-op members think?"
"Mom, this is a classic! 1952 MG-TD. It's even--"
"British Racing green... yes, Aage. I know. Your father knows. Your grandmother knows. We all know about the car."
"But Mom, look." He waved his Handy at her. The MG glowed on its small screen. "There's one up for auction on carsforsale.com and I'm too young to bid. You've got to help me."
"Aage!" She put her hands on her hips and shook her head. "Your age is not the problem. You can't even afford it."
"I'd pay you back." How could he explain his fascination with the Vehicular Age to her? The seductive sheen, the rumble, the combustive power of automobiles called to him like a siren at sea. He coveted the sense of possibility inherent in the turn of a key.
And the MG-TD held a place high in his list of hope. British Racing Green, wood dashboard and a four-stroke engine. He had only seen one MG-TD, when he'd gone on holiday with his folks to the U.K. They had been walking down the street in downtown London. Most of the traffic had been pedestrian or cyclist. The occasional fuel-cell car glided by like a ghostly leftover from the Vehicular Age. Double-decker biodiesel buses roared past regularly, trailing the odor of fish and chips after them.
And then it came down the street toward them. A car that purred as its rounded lines soaked up the sun with a green so deep it was almost black. It pulled into the valet parking of a grand hotel and two people got out. Aage barely noticed them. He stared inside the car, where chrome and brass gleamed against a burled wood dashboard. The doors of the car shut with the heavy thunk of real metal. A valet pulled the car out of the parking circle and Aage never saw it again. | How long has Aage been talking about the car he'd seen on holiday? | Event_duration | [
"not enough information",
"Since the day he saw it",
"Since never. This is the first he's mentioned it",
"Since he was one year old. \"1952 MG-TD\" was the first word he ever learned"
] | 1 |
f063_11 | f063 | 11 | fiction | {
"author": "Mary Robinette Kowal",
"title": "This Little Pig",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/kowalmother08This_little_pig-MRK/0.html"
} | Aage Llievang tried explaining to his mother, but she shook her head. "Now, Aage. Really. Your own car? A car? What would the other co-op members think?"
"Mom, this is a classic! 1952 MG-TD. It's even--"
"British Racing green... yes, Aage. I know. Your father knows. Your grandmother knows. We all know about the car."
"But Mom, look." He waved his Handy at her. The MG glowed on its small screen. "There's one up for auction on carsforsale.com and I'm too young to bid. You've got to help me."
"Aage!" She put her hands on her hips and shook her head. "Your age is not the problem. You can't even afford it."
"I'd pay you back." How could he explain his fascination with the Vehicular Age to her? The seductive sheen, the rumble, the combustive power of automobiles called to him like a siren at sea. He coveted the sense of possibility inherent in the turn of a key.
And the MG-TD held a place high in his list of hope. British Racing Green, wood dashboard and a four-stroke engine. He had only seen one MG-TD, when he'd gone on holiday with his folks to the U.K. They had been walking down the street in downtown London. Most of the traffic had been pedestrian or cyclist. The occasional fuel-cell car glided by like a ghostly leftover from the Vehicular Age. Double-decker biodiesel buses roared past regularly, trailing the odor of fish and chips after them.
And then it came down the street toward them. A car that purred as its rounded lines soaked up the sun with a green so deep it was almost black. It pulled into the valet parking of a grand hotel and two people got out. Aage barely noticed them. He stared inside the car, where chrome and brass gleamed against a burled wood dashboard. The doors of the car shut with the heavy thunk of real metal. A valet pulled the car out of the parking circle and Aage never saw it again. | Who pulled the MG-TD out of the parking circle? | Character_identity | [
"not enough information",
"Aage's mom",
"Aage",
"A valet"
] | 3 |
f063_12 | f063 | 12 | fiction | {
"author": "Mary Robinette Kowal",
"title": "This Little Pig",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/kowalmother08This_little_pig-MRK/0.html"
} | Aage Llievang tried explaining to his mother, but she shook her head. "Now, Aage. Really. Your own car? A car? What would the other co-op members think?"
"Mom, this is a classic! 1952 MG-TD. It's even--"
"British Racing green... yes, Aage. I know. Your father knows. Your grandmother knows. We all know about the car."
"But Mom, look." He waved his Handy at her. The MG glowed on its small screen. "There's one up for auction on carsforsale.com and I'm too young to bid. You've got to help me."
"Aage!" She put her hands on her hips and shook her head. "Your age is not the problem. You can't even afford it."
"I'd pay you back." How could he explain his fascination with the Vehicular Age to her? The seductive sheen, the rumble, the combustive power of automobiles called to him like a siren at sea. He coveted the sense of possibility inherent in the turn of a key.
And the MG-TD held a place high in his list of hope. British Racing Green, wood dashboard and a four-stroke engine. He had only seen one MG-TD, when he'd gone on holiday with his folks to the U.K. They had been walking down the street in downtown London. Most of the traffic had been pedestrian or cyclist. The occasional fuel-cell car glided by like a ghostly leftover from the Vehicular Age. Double-decker biodiesel buses roared past regularly, trailing the odor of fish and chips after them.
And then it came down the street toward them. A car that purred as its rounded lines soaked up the sun with a green so deep it was almost black. It pulled into the valet parking of a grand hotel and two people got out. Aage barely noticed them. He stared inside the car, where chrome and brass gleamed against a burled wood dashboard. The doors of the car shut with the heavy thunk of real metal. A valet pulled the car out of the parking circle and Aage never saw it again. | What did Aage want to purchase by borrowing funds? | Factual | [
"Valet parking",
"A holiday in the U.K.",
"A 1952 MG-TD",
"not enough information"
] | 2 |
f063_13 | f063 | 13 | fiction | {
"author": "Mary Robinette Kowal",
"title": "This Little Pig",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/kowalmother08This_little_pig-MRK/0.html"
} | Aage Llievang tried explaining to his mother, but she shook her head. "Now, Aage. Really. Your own car? A car? What would the other co-op members think?"
"Mom, this is a classic! 1952 MG-TD. It's even--"
"British Racing green... yes, Aage. I know. Your father knows. Your grandmother knows. We all know about the car."
"But Mom, look." He waved his Handy at her. The MG glowed on its small screen. "There's one up for auction on carsforsale.com and I'm too young to bid. You've got to help me."
"Aage!" She put her hands on her hips and shook her head. "Your age is not the problem. You can't even afford it."
"I'd pay you back." How could he explain his fascination with the Vehicular Age to her? The seductive sheen, the rumble, the combustive power of automobiles called to him like a siren at sea. He coveted the sense of possibility inherent in the turn of a key.
And the MG-TD held a place high in his list of hope. British Racing Green, wood dashboard and a four-stroke engine. He had only seen one MG-TD, when he'd gone on holiday with his folks to the U.K. They had been walking down the street in downtown London. Most of the traffic had been pedestrian or cyclist. The occasional fuel-cell car glided by like a ghostly leftover from the Vehicular Age. Double-decker biodiesel buses roared past regularly, trailing the odor of fish and chips after them.
And then it came down the street toward them. A car that purred as its rounded lines soaked up the sun with a green so deep it was almost black. It pulled into the valet parking of a grand hotel and two people got out. Aage barely noticed them. He stared inside the car, where chrome and brass gleamed against a burled wood dashboard. The doors of the car shut with the heavy thunk of real metal. A valet pulled the car out of the parking circle and Aage never saw it again. | What was Aage unable to explain to his mom? | Factual | [
"not enough information",
"Why he needed her help",
"His love of the Vehicular age",
"How to make a bid on the car auction"
] | 2 |
f063_14 | f063 | 14 | fiction | {
"author": "Mary Robinette Kowal",
"title": "This Little Pig",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/kowalmother08This_little_pig-MRK/0.html"
} | Aage Llievang tried explaining to his mother, but she shook her head. "Now, Aage. Really. Your own car? A car? What would the other co-op members think?"
"Mom, this is a classic! 1952 MG-TD. It's even--"
"British Racing green... yes, Aage. I know. Your father knows. Your grandmother knows. We all know about the car."
"But Mom, look." He waved his Handy at her. The MG glowed on its small screen. "There's one up for auction on carsforsale.com and I'm too young to bid. You've got to help me."
"Aage!" She put her hands on her hips and shook her head. "Your age is not the problem. You can't even afford it."
"I'd pay you back." How could he explain his fascination with the Vehicular Age to her? The seductive sheen, the rumble, the combustive power of automobiles called to him like a siren at sea. He coveted the sense of possibility inherent in the turn of a key.
And the MG-TD held a place high in his list of hope. British Racing Green, wood dashboard and a four-stroke engine. He had only seen one MG-TD, when he'd gone on holiday with his folks to the U.K. They had been walking down the street in downtown London. Most of the traffic had been pedestrian or cyclist. The occasional fuel-cell car glided by like a ghostly leftover from the Vehicular Age. Double-decker biodiesel buses roared past regularly, trailing the odor of fish and chips after them.
And then it came down the street toward them. A car that purred as its rounded lines soaked up the sun with a green so deep it was almost black. It pulled into the valet parking of a grand hotel and two people got out. Aage barely noticed them. He stared inside the car, where chrome and brass gleamed against a burled wood dashboard. The doors of the car shut with the heavy thunk of real metal. A valet pulled the car out of the parking circle and Aage never saw it again. | Why is Aage's mother against the idea of a car? | Causality | [
"Because Aage's interest seems so sudden",
"not enough information",
"Because Aage can't afford it",
"Because the vehicle isn't for sale"
] | 2 |
f063_15 | f063 | 15 | fiction | {
"author": "Mary Robinette Kowal",
"title": "This Little Pig",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/kowalmother08This_little_pig-MRK/0.html"
} | Aage Llievang tried explaining to his mother, but she shook her head. "Now, Aage. Really. Your own car? A car? What would the other co-op members think?"
"Mom, this is a classic! 1952 MG-TD. It's even--"
"British Racing green... yes, Aage. I know. Your father knows. Your grandmother knows. We all know about the car."
"But Mom, look." He waved his Handy at her. The MG glowed on its small screen. "There's one up for auction on carsforsale.com and I'm too young to bid. You've got to help me."
"Aage!" She put her hands on her hips and shook her head. "Your age is not the problem. You can't even afford it."
"I'd pay you back." How could he explain his fascination with the Vehicular Age to her? The seductive sheen, the rumble, the combustive power of automobiles called to him like a siren at sea. He coveted the sense of possibility inherent in the turn of a key.
And the MG-TD held a place high in his list of hope. British Racing Green, wood dashboard and a four-stroke engine. He had only seen one MG-TD, when he'd gone on holiday with his folks to the U.K. They had been walking down the street in downtown London. Most of the traffic had been pedestrian or cyclist. The occasional fuel-cell car glided by like a ghostly leftover from the Vehicular Age. Double-decker biodiesel buses roared past regularly, trailing the odor of fish and chips after them.
And then it came down the street toward them. A car that purred as its rounded lines soaked up the sun with a green so deep it was almost black. It pulled into the valet parking of a grand hotel and two people got out. Aage barely noticed them. He stared inside the car, where chrome and brass gleamed against a burled wood dashboard. The doors of the car shut with the heavy thunk of real metal. A valet pulled the car out of the parking circle and Aage never saw it again. | Aage believes that: | Belief_states | [
"not enough information",
"The car is worth the money asked in the auction",
"The car in the auction didn't have the sheen he was looking for",
"He is personally old enough to participate in the auction"
] | 1 |
f063_16 | f063 | 16 | fiction | {
"author": "Mary Robinette Kowal",
"title": "This Little Pig",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/kowalmother08This_little_pig-MRK/0.html"
} | Aage Llievang tried explaining to his mother, but she shook her head. "Now, Aage. Really. Your own car? A car? What would the other co-op members think?"
"Mom, this is a classic! 1952 MG-TD. It's even--"
"British Racing green... yes, Aage. I know. Your father knows. Your grandmother knows. We all know about the car."
"But Mom, look." He waved his Handy at her. The MG glowed on its small screen. "There's one up for auction on carsforsale.com and I'm too young to bid. You've got to help me."
"Aage!" She put her hands on her hips and shook her head. "Your age is not the problem. You can't even afford it."
"I'd pay you back." How could he explain his fascination with the Vehicular Age to her? The seductive sheen, the rumble, the combustive power of automobiles called to him like a siren at sea. He coveted the sense of possibility inherent in the turn of a key.
And the MG-TD held a place high in his list of hope. British Racing Green, wood dashboard and a four-stroke engine. He had only seen one MG-TD, when he'd gone on holiday with his folks to the U.K. They had been walking down the street in downtown London. Most of the traffic had been pedestrian or cyclist. The occasional fuel-cell car glided by like a ghostly leftover from the Vehicular Age. Double-decker biodiesel buses roared past regularly, trailing the odor of fish and chips after them.
And then it came down the street toward them. A car that purred as its rounded lines soaked up the sun with a green so deep it was almost black. It pulled into the valet parking of a grand hotel and two people got out. Aage barely noticed them. He stared inside the car, where chrome and brass gleamed against a burled wood dashboard. The doors of the car shut with the heavy thunk of real metal. A valet pulled the car out of the parking circle and Aage never saw it again. | Aage tells his mom she needs to help him: | Temporal_order | [
"After he recalled his trip in London",
"Before he tells his mom he will pay her back",
"After his mom puts her hand on her hips",
"not enough information"
] | 1 |
f063_17 | f063 | 17 | fiction | {
"author": "Mary Robinette Kowal",
"title": "This Little Pig",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/kowalmother08This_little_pig-MRK/0.html"
} | Aage Llievang tried explaining to his mother, but she shook her head. "Now, Aage. Really. Your own car? A car? What would the other co-op members think?"
"Mom, this is a classic! 1952 MG-TD. It's even--"
"British Racing green... yes, Aage. I know. Your father knows. Your grandmother knows. We all know about the car."
"But Mom, look." He waved his Handy at her. The MG glowed on its small screen. "There's one up for auction on carsforsale.com and I'm too young to bid. You've got to help me."
"Aage!" She put her hands on her hips and shook her head. "Your age is not the problem. You can't even afford it."
"I'd pay you back." How could he explain his fascination with the Vehicular Age to her? The seductive sheen, the rumble, the combustive power of automobiles called to him like a siren at sea. He coveted the sense of possibility inherent in the turn of a key.
And the MG-TD held a place high in his list of hope. British Racing Green, wood dashboard and a four-stroke engine. He had only seen one MG-TD, when he'd gone on holiday with his folks to the U.K. They had been walking down the street in downtown London. Most of the traffic had been pedestrian or cyclist. The occasional fuel-cell car glided by like a ghostly leftover from the Vehicular Age. Double-decker biodiesel buses roared past regularly, trailing the odor of fish and chips after them.
And then it came down the street toward them. A car that purred as its rounded lines soaked up the sun with a green so deep it was almost black. It pulled into the valet parking of a grand hotel and two people got out. Aage barely noticed them. He stared inside the car, where chrome and brass gleamed against a burled wood dashboard. The doors of the car shut with the heavy thunk of real metal. A valet pulled the car out of the parking circle and Aage never saw it again. | Does Aage's mom own a car? | Unanswerable | [
"not enough information",
"No, she drives Aage's fathers car",
"No, she is unable to drive",
"Yes, a MG-TD"
] | 0 |
f064_0 | f064 | 0 | fiction | {
"author": "Lewis Shiner",
"title": "Talking Dog",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/shinerlother07tommy_and_the_talking_dog/0.html"
} | "If you can answer three questions," the dog said, "you can wear the magic shoes."
Tommy looked up and down the deserted street. "Did you ... say something?"
"That's right. Didn't you hear me?" It was a gruff voice, with just a trace of an English accent, and it was definitely coming out of the dog.
"You're a dog." In fact it was a huge, fat bulldog, with big flaps of skin hanging off the sides of its face. From where it sat, on the front steps of the abandoned motel, it looked Tommy straight in the eye.
"That's correct," the dog said.
Tommy stared hard at the dusty windows of the motel office. "This is a trick, right? There's a TV camera back there and you want to make me look stupid."
"No tricks, Tommy. Just three questions."
"C'mon," Tommy said. He deepened his voice. "Sit up." The dog stared at him. "Roll over. Play dead."
"Cut the crap, Tommy. Do you want the shoes or not?"
"Let me see 'em."
The dog shifted its weight to one side, revealing a battered pair of red Converse All-Stars. "Yuck," Tommy said. "Those are gross."
"Maybe," the dog said, "but they're magic."
"What are the questions?"
"Which of the following presidents died in office? Lincoln, McKinley, F.D.R.?"
"C'mon. They all did. That's the same dumb question they use when they're trying to sell you a free portrait on the telephone."
"Which weighs more, a pound of feathers or a pound of lead?"
"They both weigh a pound. This is stupid. Next you're going to ask me who's buried in Grant's Tomb."
The dog narrowed its eyes. "Have you done this before?"
"Ulysses S. Grant," Tommy said. "Lemme see the shoes."
They were just his size and felt pretty good, even though they were scuffed up and the metal things were gone out of the side vents. "I don't feel any different," Tommy said.
"You need the shoes to look for the treasure," the dog said.
"What treasure?"
"When you're wearing the shoes, you can open the doors of the motel rooms." | How can Tommy open all the doors of the motel rooms? | Causality | [
"Because he has the magic shoes",
"Because he thought the magic shoes were gross",
"not enough information",
"Because he deepened his voice"
] | 0 |
f064_1 | f064 | 1 | fiction | {
"author": "Lewis Shiner",
"title": "Talking Dog",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/shinerlother07tommy_and_the_talking_dog/0.html"
} | "If you can answer three questions," the dog said, "you can wear the magic shoes."
Tommy looked up and down the deserted street. "Did you ... say something?"
"That's right. Didn't you hear me?" It was a gruff voice, with just a trace of an English accent, and it was definitely coming out of the dog.
"You're a dog." In fact it was a huge, fat bulldog, with big flaps of skin hanging off the sides of its face. From where it sat, on the front steps of the abandoned motel, it looked Tommy straight in the eye.
"That's correct," the dog said.
Tommy stared hard at the dusty windows of the motel office. "This is a trick, right? There's a TV camera back there and you want to make me look stupid."
"No tricks, Tommy. Just three questions."
"C'mon," Tommy said. He deepened his voice. "Sit up." The dog stared at him. "Roll over. Play dead."
"Cut the crap, Tommy. Do you want the shoes or not?"
"Let me see 'em."
The dog shifted its weight to one side, revealing a battered pair of red Converse All-Stars. "Yuck," Tommy said. "Those are gross."
"Maybe," the dog said, "but they're magic."
"What are the questions?"
"Which of the following presidents died in office? Lincoln, McKinley, F.D.R.?"
"C'mon. They all did. That's the same dumb question they use when they're trying to sell you a free portrait on the telephone."
"Which weighs more, a pound of feathers or a pound of lead?"
"They both weigh a pound. This is stupid. Next you're going to ask me who's buried in Grant's Tomb."
The dog narrowed its eyes. "Have you done this before?"
"Ulysses S. Grant," Tommy said. "Lemme see the shoes."
They were just his size and felt pretty good, even though they were scuffed up and the metal things were gone out of the side vents. "I don't feel any different," Tommy said.
"You need the shoes to look for the treasure," the dog said.
"What treasure?"
"When you're wearing the shoes, you can open the doors of the motel rooms." | Why didn't Tommy like the shoes | Causality | [
"they're red converse All-Stars",
"they're battered",
"not enough information",
"they're gross"
] | 3 |
f064_2 | f064 | 2 | fiction | {
"author": "Lewis Shiner",
"title": "Talking Dog",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/shinerlother07tommy_and_the_talking_dog/0.html"
} | "If you can answer three questions," the dog said, "you can wear the magic shoes."
Tommy looked up and down the deserted street. "Did you ... say something?"
"That's right. Didn't you hear me?" It was a gruff voice, with just a trace of an English accent, and it was definitely coming out of the dog.
"You're a dog." In fact it was a huge, fat bulldog, with big flaps of skin hanging off the sides of its face. From where it sat, on the front steps of the abandoned motel, it looked Tommy straight in the eye.
"That's correct," the dog said.
Tommy stared hard at the dusty windows of the motel office. "This is a trick, right? There's a TV camera back there and you want to make me look stupid."
"No tricks, Tommy. Just three questions."
"C'mon," Tommy said. He deepened his voice. "Sit up." The dog stared at him. "Roll over. Play dead."
"Cut the crap, Tommy. Do you want the shoes or not?"
"Let me see 'em."
The dog shifted its weight to one side, revealing a battered pair of red Converse All-Stars. "Yuck," Tommy said. "Those are gross."
"Maybe," the dog said, "but they're magic."
"What are the questions?"
"Which of the following presidents died in office? Lincoln, McKinley, F.D.R.?"
"C'mon. They all did. That's the same dumb question they use when they're trying to sell you a free portrait on the telephone."
"Which weighs more, a pound of feathers or a pound of lead?"
"They both weigh a pound. This is stupid. Next you're going to ask me who's buried in Grant's Tomb."
The dog narrowed its eyes. "Have you done this before?"
"Ulysses S. Grant," Tommy said. "Lemme see the shoes."
They were just his size and felt pretty good, even though they were scuffed up and the metal things were gone out of the side vents. "I don't feel any different," Tommy said.
"You need the shoes to look for the treasure," the dog said.
"What treasure?"
"When you're wearing the shoes, you can open the doors of the motel rooms." | Who deepened his voice? | Character_identity | [
"Lincoln",
"The dog",
"not enough information",
"Tommy"
] | 3 |
f064_3 | f064 | 3 | fiction | {
"author": "Lewis Shiner",
"title": "Talking Dog",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/shinerlother07tommy_and_the_talking_dog/0.html"
} | "If you can answer three questions," the dog said, "you can wear the magic shoes."
Tommy looked up and down the deserted street. "Did you ... say something?"
"That's right. Didn't you hear me?" It was a gruff voice, with just a trace of an English accent, and it was definitely coming out of the dog.
"You're a dog." In fact it was a huge, fat bulldog, with big flaps of skin hanging off the sides of its face. From where it sat, on the front steps of the abandoned motel, it looked Tommy straight in the eye.
"That's correct," the dog said.
Tommy stared hard at the dusty windows of the motel office. "This is a trick, right? There's a TV camera back there and you want to make me look stupid."
"No tricks, Tommy. Just three questions."
"C'mon," Tommy said. He deepened his voice. "Sit up." The dog stared at him. "Roll over. Play dead."
"Cut the crap, Tommy. Do you want the shoes or not?"
"Let me see 'em."
The dog shifted its weight to one side, revealing a battered pair of red Converse All-Stars. "Yuck," Tommy said. "Those are gross."
"Maybe," the dog said, "but they're magic."
"What are the questions?"
"Which of the following presidents died in office? Lincoln, McKinley, F.D.R.?"
"C'mon. They all did. That's the same dumb question they use when they're trying to sell you a free portrait on the telephone."
"Which weighs more, a pound of feathers or a pound of lead?"
"They both weigh a pound. This is stupid. Next you're going to ask me who's buried in Grant's Tomb."
The dog narrowed its eyes. "Have you done this before?"
"Ulysses S. Grant," Tommy said. "Lemme see the shoes."
They were just his size and felt pretty good, even though they were scuffed up and the metal things were gone out of the side vents. "I don't feel any different," Tommy said.
"You need the shoes to look for the treasure," the dog said.
"What treasure?"
"When you're wearing the shoes, you can open the doors of the motel rooms." | What is the treasure in the motel? | Unanswerable | [
"not enough information",
"dog food",
"coins",
"shoes"
] | 0 |
f064_4 | f064 | 4 | fiction | {
"author": "Lewis Shiner",
"title": "Talking Dog",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/shinerlother07tommy_and_the_talking_dog/0.html"
} | "If you can answer three questions," the dog said, "you can wear the magic shoes."
Tommy looked up and down the deserted street. "Did you ... say something?"
"That's right. Didn't you hear me?" It was a gruff voice, with just a trace of an English accent, and it was definitely coming out of the dog.
"You're a dog." In fact it was a huge, fat bulldog, with big flaps of skin hanging off the sides of its face. From where it sat, on the front steps of the abandoned motel, it looked Tommy straight in the eye.
"That's correct," the dog said.
Tommy stared hard at the dusty windows of the motel office. "This is a trick, right? There's a TV camera back there and you want to make me look stupid."
"No tricks, Tommy. Just three questions."
"C'mon," Tommy said. He deepened his voice. "Sit up." The dog stared at him. "Roll over. Play dead."
"Cut the crap, Tommy. Do you want the shoes or not?"
"Let me see 'em."
The dog shifted its weight to one side, revealing a battered pair of red Converse All-Stars. "Yuck," Tommy said. "Those are gross."
"Maybe," the dog said, "but they're magic."
"What are the questions?"
"Which of the following presidents died in office? Lincoln, McKinley, F.D.R.?"
"C'mon. They all did. That's the same dumb question they use when they're trying to sell you a free portrait on the telephone."
"Which weighs more, a pound of feathers or a pound of lead?"
"They both weigh a pound. This is stupid. Next you're going to ask me who's buried in Grant's Tomb."
The dog narrowed its eyes. "Have you done this before?"
"Ulysses S. Grant," Tommy said. "Lemme see the shoes."
They were just his size and felt pretty good, even though they were scuffed up and the metal things were gone out of the side vents. "I don't feel any different," Tommy said.
"You need the shoes to look for the treasure," the dog said.
"What treasure?"
"When you're wearing the shoes, you can open the doors of the motel rooms." | When does the dog tell Tommy about the treasure? | Temporal_order | [
"Before asking Tommy the three questions.",
"not enough information",
"After Tommy answered all three questions.",
"While he was asking Tommy questions."
] | 2 |
f064_5 | f064 | 5 | fiction | {
"author": "Lewis Shiner",
"title": "Talking Dog",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/shinerlother07tommy_and_the_talking_dog/0.html"
} | "If you can answer three questions," the dog said, "you can wear the magic shoes."
Tommy looked up and down the deserted street. "Did you ... say something?"
"That's right. Didn't you hear me?" It was a gruff voice, with just a trace of an English accent, and it was definitely coming out of the dog.
"You're a dog." In fact it was a huge, fat bulldog, with big flaps of skin hanging off the sides of its face. From where it sat, on the front steps of the abandoned motel, it looked Tommy straight in the eye.
"That's correct," the dog said.
Tommy stared hard at the dusty windows of the motel office. "This is a trick, right? There's a TV camera back there and you want to make me look stupid."
"No tricks, Tommy. Just three questions."
"C'mon," Tommy said. He deepened his voice. "Sit up." The dog stared at him. "Roll over. Play dead."
"Cut the crap, Tommy. Do you want the shoes or not?"
"Let me see 'em."
The dog shifted its weight to one side, revealing a battered pair of red Converse All-Stars. "Yuck," Tommy said. "Those are gross."
"Maybe," the dog said, "but they're magic."
"What are the questions?"
"Which of the following presidents died in office? Lincoln, McKinley, F.D.R.?"
"C'mon. They all did. That's the same dumb question they use when they're trying to sell you a free portrait on the telephone."
"Which weighs more, a pound of feathers or a pound of lead?"
"They both weigh a pound. This is stupid. Next you're going to ask me who's buried in Grant's Tomb."
The dog narrowed its eyes. "Have you done this before?"
"Ulysses S. Grant," Tommy said. "Lemme see the shoes."
They were just his size and felt pretty good, even though they were scuffed up and the metal things were gone out of the side vents. "I don't feel any different," Tommy said.
"You need the shoes to look for the treasure," the dog said.
"What treasure?"
"When you're wearing the shoes, you can open the doors of the motel rooms." | Where was the dog located when it started talking | Factual | [
"inside the motel",
"not enough information",
"In Grant's Tomb",
"outside of the motel"
] | 3 |
f064_6 | f064 | 6 | fiction | {
"author": "Lewis Shiner",
"title": "Talking Dog",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/shinerlother07tommy_and_the_talking_dog/0.html"
} | "If you can answer three questions," the dog said, "you can wear the magic shoes."
Tommy looked up and down the deserted street. "Did you ... say something?"
"That's right. Didn't you hear me?" It was a gruff voice, with just a trace of an English accent, and it was definitely coming out of the dog.
"You're a dog." In fact it was a huge, fat bulldog, with big flaps of skin hanging off the sides of its face. From where it sat, on the front steps of the abandoned motel, it looked Tommy straight in the eye.
"That's correct," the dog said.
Tommy stared hard at the dusty windows of the motel office. "This is a trick, right? There's a TV camera back there and you want to make me look stupid."
"No tricks, Tommy. Just three questions."
"C'mon," Tommy said. He deepened his voice. "Sit up." The dog stared at him. "Roll over. Play dead."
"Cut the crap, Tommy. Do you want the shoes or not?"
"Let me see 'em."
The dog shifted its weight to one side, revealing a battered pair of red Converse All-Stars. "Yuck," Tommy said. "Those are gross."
"Maybe," the dog said, "but they're magic."
"What are the questions?"
"Which of the following presidents died in office? Lincoln, McKinley, F.D.R.?"
"C'mon. They all did. That's the same dumb question they use when they're trying to sell you a free portrait on the telephone."
"Which weighs more, a pound of feathers or a pound of lead?"
"They both weigh a pound. This is stupid. Next you're going to ask me who's buried in Grant's Tomb."
The dog narrowed its eyes. "Have you done this before?"
"Ulysses S. Grant," Tommy said. "Lemme see the shoes."
They were just his size and felt pretty good, even though they were scuffed up and the metal things were gone out of the side vents. "I don't feel any different," Tommy said.
"You need the shoes to look for the treasure," the dog said.
"What treasure?"
"When you're wearing the shoes, you can open the doors of the motel rooms." | Who tells Tommy about the magic shoes? | Character_identity | [
"Abraham Lincoln.",
"A bulldog.",
"not enough information",
"Ulysses S. Grant."
] | 1 |
f064_7 | f064 | 7 | fiction | {
"author": "Lewis Shiner",
"title": "Talking Dog",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/shinerlother07tommy_and_the_talking_dog/0.html"
} | "If you can answer three questions," the dog said, "you can wear the magic shoes."
Tommy looked up and down the deserted street. "Did you ... say something?"
"That's right. Didn't you hear me?" It was a gruff voice, with just a trace of an English accent, and it was definitely coming out of the dog.
"You're a dog." In fact it was a huge, fat bulldog, with big flaps of skin hanging off the sides of its face. From where it sat, on the front steps of the abandoned motel, it looked Tommy straight in the eye.
"That's correct," the dog said.
Tommy stared hard at the dusty windows of the motel office. "This is a trick, right? There's a TV camera back there and you want to make me look stupid."
"No tricks, Tommy. Just three questions."
"C'mon," Tommy said. He deepened his voice. "Sit up." The dog stared at him. "Roll over. Play dead."
"Cut the crap, Tommy. Do you want the shoes or not?"
"Let me see 'em."
The dog shifted its weight to one side, revealing a battered pair of red Converse All-Stars. "Yuck," Tommy said. "Those are gross."
"Maybe," the dog said, "but they're magic."
"What are the questions?"
"Which of the following presidents died in office? Lincoln, McKinley, F.D.R.?"
"C'mon. They all did. That's the same dumb question they use when they're trying to sell you a free portrait on the telephone."
"Which weighs more, a pound of feathers or a pound of lead?"
"They both weigh a pound. This is stupid. Next you're going to ask me who's buried in Grant's Tomb."
The dog narrowed its eyes. "Have you done this before?"
"Ulysses S. Grant," Tommy said. "Lemme see the shoes."
They were just his size and felt pretty good, even though they were scuffed up and the metal things were gone out of the side vents. "I don't feel any different," Tommy said.
"You need the shoes to look for the treasure," the dog said.
"What treasure?"
"When you're wearing the shoes, you can open the doors of the motel rooms." | What does the dog promise to give Tommy if Tommy answers all three questions? | Factual | [
"A free portrait.",
"not enough information",
"Treasure.",
"Magic shoes."
] | 3 |
f064_8 | f064 | 8 | fiction | {
"author": "Lewis Shiner",
"title": "Talking Dog",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/shinerlother07tommy_and_the_talking_dog/0.html"
} | "If you can answer three questions," the dog said, "you can wear the magic shoes."
Tommy looked up and down the deserted street. "Did you ... say something?"
"That's right. Didn't you hear me?" It was a gruff voice, with just a trace of an English accent, and it was definitely coming out of the dog.
"You're a dog." In fact it was a huge, fat bulldog, with big flaps of skin hanging off the sides of its face. From where it sat, on the front steps of the abandoned motel, it looked Tommy straight in the eye.
"That's correct," the dog said.
Tommy stared hard at the dusty windows of the motel office. "This is a trick, right? There's a TV camera back there and you want to make me look stupid."
"No tricks, Tommy. Just three questions."
"C'mon," Tommy said. He deepened his voice. "Sit up." The dog stared at him. "Roll over. Play dead."
"Cut the crap, Tommy. Do you want the shoes or not?"
"Let me see 'em."
The dog shifted its weight to one side, revealing a battered pair of red Converse All-Stars. "Yuck," Tommy said. "Those are gross."
"Maybe," the dog said, "but they're magic."
"What are the questions?"
"Which of the following presidents died in office? Lincoln, McKinley, F.D.R.?"
"C'mon. They all did. That's the same dumb question they use when they're trying to sell you a free portrait on the telephone."
"Which weighs more, a pound of feathers or a pound of lead?"
"They both weigh a pound. This is stupid. Next you're going to ask me who's buried in Grant's Tomb."
The dog narrowed its eyes. "Have you done this before?"
"Ulysses S. Grant," Tommy said. "Lemme see the shoes."
They were just his size and felt pretty good, even though they were scuffed up and the metal things were gone out of the side vents. "I don't feel any different," Tommy said.
"You need the shoes to look for the treasure," the dog said.
"What treasure?"
"When you're wearing the shoes, you can open the doors of the motel rooms." | When Tommy first sees the shoes, he is: | Belief_states | [
"disgusted.",
"not enough information",
"bored.",
"amused."
] | 0 |
f064_9 | f064 | 9 | fiction | {
"author": "Lewis Shiner",
"title": "Talking Dog",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/shinerlother07tommy_and_the_talking_dog/0.html"
} | "If you can answer three questions," the dog said, "you can wear the magic shoes."
Tommy looked up and down the deserted street. "Did you ... say something?"
"That's right. Didn't you hear me?" It was a gruff voice, with just a trace of an English accent, and it was definitely coming out of the dog.
"You're a dog." In fact it was a huge, fat bulldog, with big flaps of skin hanging off the sides of its face. From where it sat, on the front steps of the abandoned motel, it looked Tommy straight in the eye.
"That's correct," the dog said.
Tommy stared hard at the dusty windows of the motel office. "This is a trick, right? There's a TV camera back there and you want to make me look stupid."
"No tricks, Tommy. Just three questions."
"C'mon," Tommy said. He deepened his voice. "Sit up." The dog stared at him. "Roll over. Play dead."
"Cut the crap, Tommy. Do you want the shoes or not?"
"Let me see 'em."
The dog shifted its weight to one side, revealing a battered pair of red Converse All-Stars. "Yuck," Tommy said. "Those are gross."
"Maybe," the dog said, "but they're magic."
"What are the questions?"
"Which of the following presidents died in office? Lincoln, McKinley, F.D.R.?"
"C'mon. They all did. That's the same dumb question they use when they're trying to sell you a free portrait on the telephone."
"Which weighs more, a pound of feathers or a pound of lead?"
"They both weigh a pound. This is stupid. Next you're going to ask me who's buried in Grant's Tomb."
The dog narrowed its eyes. "Have you done this before?"
"Ulysses S. Grant," Tommy said. "Lemme see the shoes."
They were just his size and felt pretty good, even though they were scuffed up and the metal things were gone out of the side vents. "I don't feel any different," Tommy said.
"You need the shoes to look for the treasure," the dog said.
"What treasure?"
"When you're wearing the shoes, you can open the doors of the motel rooms." | How many employees probably work at the abandoned motel? | Entity_properties | [
"not enough information",
"Zero.",
"20.",
"Five."
] | 1 |
f064_10 | f064 | 10 | fiction | {
"author": "Lewis Shiner",
"title": "Talking Dog",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/shinerlother07tommy_and_the_talking_dog/0.html"
} | "If you can answer three questions," the dog said, "you can wear the magic shoes."
Tommy looked up and down the deserted street. "Did you ... say something?"
"That's right. Didn't you hear me?" It was a gruff voice, with just a trace of an English accent, and it was definitely coming out of the dog.
"You're a dog." In fact it was a huge, fat bulldog, with big flaps of skin hanging off the sides of its face. From where it sat, on the front steps of the abandoned motel, it looked Tommy straight in the eye.
"That's correct," the dog said.
Tommy stared hard at the dusty windows of the motel office. "This is a trick, right? There's a TV camera back there and you want to make me look stupid."
"No tricks, Tommy. Just three questions."
"C'mon," Tommy said. He deepened his voice. "Sit up." The dog stared at him. "Roll over. Play dead."
"Cut the crap, Tommy. Do you want the shoes or not?"
"Let me see 'em."
The dog shifted its weight to one side, revealing a battered pair of red Converse All-Stars. "Yuck," Tommy said. "Those are gross."
"Maybe," the dog said, "but they're magic."
"What are the questions?"
"Which of the following presidents died in office? Lincoln, McKinley, F.D.R.?"
"C'mon. They all did. That's the same dumb question they use when they're trying to sell you a free portrait on the telephone."
"Which weighs more, a pound of feathers or a pound of lead?"
"They both weigh a pound. This is stupid. Next you're going to ask me who's buried in Grant's Tomb."
The dog narrowed its eyes. "Have you done this before?"
"Ulysses S. Grant," Tommy said. "Lemme see the shoes."
They were just his size and felt pretty good, even though they were scuffed up and the metal things were gone out of the side vents. "I don't feel any different," Tommy said.
"You need the shoes to look for the treasure," the dog said.
"What treasure?"
"When you're wearing the shoes, you can open the doors of the motel rooms." | How does Tommy feel about the dog talking to him? | Belief_states | [
"He would be president",
"not enough information",
"He would receive a free portrait",
"that he was being tricked"
] | 3 |
f064_11 | f064 | 11 | fiction | {
"author": "Lewis Shiner",
"title": "Talking Dog",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/shinerlother07tommy_and_the_talking_dog/0.html"
} | "If you can answer three questions," the dog said, "you can wear the magic shoes."
Tommy looked up and down the deserted street. "Did you ... say something?"
"That's right. Didn't you hear me?" It was a gruff voice, with just a trace of an English accent, and it was definitely coming out of the dog.
"You're a dog." In fact it was a huge, fat bulldog, with big flaps of skin hanging off the sides of its face. From where it sat, on the front steps of the abandoned motel, it looked Tommy straight in the eye.
"That's correct," the dog said.
Tommy stared hard at the dusty windows of the motel office. "This is a trick, right? There's a TV camera back there and you want to make me look stupid."
"No tricks, Tommy. Just three questions."
"C'mon," Tommy said. He deepened his voice. "Sit up." The dog stared at him. "Roll over. Play dead."
"Cut the crap, Tommy. Do you want the shoes or not?"
"Let me see 'em."
The dog shifted its weight to one side, revealing a battered pair of red Converse All-Stars. "Yuck," Tommy said. "Those are gross."
"Maybe," the dog said, "but they're magic."
"What are the questions?"
"Which of the following presidents died in office? Lincoln, McKinley, F.D.R.?"
"C'mon. They all did. That's the same dumb question they use when they're trying to sell you a free portrait on the telephone."
"Which weighs more, a pound of feathers or a pound of lead?"
"They both weigh a pound. This is stupid. Next you're going to ask me who's buried in Grant's Tomb."
The dog narrowed its eyes. "Have you done this before?"
"Ulysses S. Grant," Tommy said. "Lemme see the shoes."
They were just his size and felt pretty good, even though they were scuffed up and the metal things were gone out of the side vents. "I don't feel any different," Tommy said.
"You need the shoes to look for the treasure," the dog said.
"What treasure?"
"When you're wearing the shoes, you can open the doors of the motel rooms." | Who is Tommy's favorite U.S. president? | Unanswerable | [
"not enough information",
"Lincoln",
"McKinley",
"FDR"
] | 0 |
f064_12 | f064 | 12 | fiction | {
"author": "Lewis Shiner",
"title": "Talking Dog",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/shinerlother07tommy_and_the_talking_dog/0.html"
} | "If you can answer three questions," the dog said, "you can wear the magic shoes."
Tommy looked up and down the deserted street. "Did you ... say something?"
"That's right. Didn't you hear me?" It was a gruff voice, with just a trace of an English accent, and it was definitely coming out of the dog.
"You're a dog." In fact it was a huge, fat bulldog, with big flaps of skin hanging off the sides of its face. From where it sat, on the front steps of the abandoned motel, it looked Tommy straight in the eye.
"That's correct," the dog said.
Tommy stared hard at the dusty windows of the motel office. "This is a trick, right? There's a TV camera back there and you want to make me look stupid."
"No tricks, Tommy. Just three questions."
"C'mon," Tommy said. He deepened his voice. "Sit up." The dog stared at him. "Roll over. Play dead."
"Cut the crap, Tommy. Do you want the shoes or not?"
"Let me see 'em."
The dog shifted its weight to one side, revealing a battered pair of red Converse All-Stars. "Yuck," Tommy said. "Those are gross."
"Maybe," the dog said, "but they're magic."
"What are the questions?"
"Which of the following presidents died in office? Lincoln, McKinley, F.D.R.?"
"C'mon. They all did. That's the same dumb question they use when they're trying to sell you a free portrait on the telephone."
"Which weighs more, a pound of feathers or a pound of lead?"
"They both weigh a pound. This is stupid. Next you're going to ask me who's buried in Grant's Tomb."
The dog narrowed its eyes. "Have you done this before?"
"Ulysses S. Grant," Tommy said. "Lemme see the shoes."
They were just his size and felt pretty good, even though they were scuffed up and the metal things were gone out of the side vents. "I don't feel any different," Tommy said.
"You need the shoes to look for the treasure," the dog said.
"What treasure?"
"When you're wearing the shoes, you can open the doors of the motel rooms." | How long did it probably take Tommy to answer the dog's questions? | Event_duration | [
"10 seconds.",
"15 minutes.",
"One minute.",
"not enough information"
] | 2 |
f064_13 | f064 | 13 | fiction | {
"author": "Lewis Shiner",
"title": "Talking Dog",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/shinerlother07tommy_and_the_talking_dog/0.html"
} | "If you can answer three questions," the dog said, "you can wear the magic shoes."
Tommy looked up and down the deserted street. "Did you ... say something?"
"That's right. Didn't you hear me?" It was a gruff voice, with just a trace of an English accent, and it was definitely coming out of the dog.
"You're a dog." In fact it was a huge, fat bulldog, with big flaps of skin hanging off the sides of its face. From where it sat, on the front steps of the abandoned motel, it looked Tommy straight in the eye.
"That's correct," the dog said.
Tommy stared hard at the dusty windows of the motel office. "This is a trick, right? There's a TV camera back there and you want to make me look stupid."
"No tricks, Tommy. Just three questions."
"C'mon," Tommy said. He deepened his voice. "Sit up." The dog stared at him. "Roll over. Play dead."
"Cut the crap, Tommy. Do you want the shoes or not?"
"Let me see 'em."
The dog shifted its weight to one side, revealing a battered pair of red Converse All-Stars. "Yuck," Tommy said. "Those are gross."
"Maybe," the dog said, "but they're magic."
"What are the questions?"
"Which of the following presidents died in office? Lincoln, McKinley, F.D.R.?"
"C'mon. They all did. That's the same dumb question they use when they're trying to sell you a free portrait on the telephone."
"Which weighs more, a pound of feathers or a pound of lead?"
"They both weigh a pound. This is stupid. Next you're going to ask me who's buried in Grant's Tomb."
The dog narrowed its eyes. "Have you done this before?"
"Ulysses S. Grant," Tommy said. "Lemme see the shoes."
They were just his size and felt pretty good, even though they were scuffed up and the metal things were gone out of the side vents. "I don't feel any different," Tommy said.
"You need the shoes to look for the treasure," the dog said.
"What treasure?"
"When you're wearing the shoes, you can open the doors of the motel rooms." | After the text ends Tommy is probably still | Subsequent_state | [
"Wearing the red shoes",
"renting motel rooms",
"not enough information",
"rolling over, playing dead and other dog tricks"
] | 0 |
f064_14 | f064 | 14 | fiction | {
"author": "Lewis Shiner",
"title": "Talking Dog",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/shinerlother07tommy_and_the_talking_dog/0.html"
} | "If you can answer three questions," the dog said, "you can wear the magic shoes."
Tommy looked up and down the deserted street. "Did you ... say something?"
"That's right. Didn't you hear me?" It was a gruff voice, with just a trace of an English accent, and it was definitely coming out of the dog.
"You're a dog." In fact it was a huge, fat bulldog, with big flaps of skin hanging off the sides of its face. From where it sat, on the front steps of the abandoned motel, it looked Tommy straight in the eye.
"That's correct," the dog said.
Tommy stared hard at the dusty windows of the motel office. "This is a trick, right? There's a TV camera back there and you want to make me look stupid."
"No tricks, Tommy. Just three questions."
"C'mon," Tommy said. He deepened his voice. "Sit up." The dog stared at him. "Roll over. Play dead."
"Cut the crap, Tommy. Do you want the shoes or not?"
"Let me see 'em."
The dog shifted its weight to one side, revealing a battered pair of red Converse All-Stars. "Yuck," Tommy said. "Those are gross."
"Maybe," the dog said, "but they're magic."
"What are the questions?"
"Which of the following presidents died in office? Lincoln, McKinley, F.D.R.?"
"C'mon. They all did. That's the same dumb question they use when they're trying to sell you a free portrait on the telephone."
"Which weighs more, a pound of feathers or a pound of lead?"
"They both weigh a pound. This is stupid. Next you're going to ask me who's buried in Grant's Tomb."
The dog narrowed its eyes. "Have you done this before?"
"Ulysses S. Grant," Tommy said. "Lemme see the shoes."
They were just his size and felt pretty good, even though they were scuffed up and the metal things were gone out of the side vents. "I don't feel any different," Tommy said.
"You need the shoes to look for the treasure," the dog said.
"What treasure?"
"When you're wearing the shoes, you can open the doors of the motel rooms." | Why did Tommy answer three questions? | Causality | [
"So that the dog would give him the magic shoes.",
"So that the dog would show him the way to Grant's Tomb.",
"So that the dog would tell him the location of the treasure.",
"not enough information"
] | 0 |
f064_15 | f064 | 15 | fiction | {
"author": "Lewis Shiner",
"title": "Talking Dog",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/shinerlother07tommy_and_the_talking_dog/0.html"
} | "If you can answer three questions," the dog said, "you can wear the magic shoes."
Tommy looked up and down the deserted street. "Did you ... say something?"
"That's right. Didn't you hear me?" It was a gruff voice, with just a trace of an English accent, and it was definitely coming out of the dog.
"You're a dog." In fact it was a huge, fat bulldog, with big flaps of skin hanging off the sides of its face. From where it sat, on the front steps of the abandoned motel, it looked Tommy straight in the eye.
"That's correct," the dog said.
Tommy stared hard at the dusty windows of the motel office. "This is a trick, right? There's a TV camera back there and you want to make me look stupid."
"No tricks, Tommy. Just three questions."
"C'mon," Tommy said. He deepened his voice. "Sit up." The dog stared at him. "Roll over. Play dead."
"Cut the crap, Tommy. Do you want the shoes or not?"
"Let me see 'em."
The dog shifted its weight to one side, revealing a battered pair of red Converse All-Stars. "Yuck," Tommy said. "Those are gross."
"Maybe," the dog said, "but they're magic."
"What are the questions?"
"Which of the following presidents died in office? Lincoln, McKinley, F.D.R.?"
"C'mon. They all did. That's the same dumb question they use when they're trying to sell you a free portrait on the telephone."
"Which weighs more, a pound of feathers or a pound of lead?"
"They both weigh a pound. This is stupid. Next you're going to ask me who's buried in Grant's Tomb."
The dog narrowed its eyes. "Have you done this before?"
"Ulysses S. Grant," Tommy said. "Lemme see the shoes."
They were just his size and felt pretty good, even though they were scuffed up and the metal things were gone out of the side vents. "I don't feel any different," Tommy said.
"You need the shoes to look for the treasure," the dog said.
"What treasure?"
"When you're wearing the shoes, you can open the doors of the motel rooms." | After the passage is over, the bulldog probably: | Subsequent_state | [
"gives Tommy the magic shoes.",
"goes inside the abandoned motel.",
"not enough information",
"paints Tommy's portrait."
] | 0 |
f064_16 | f064 | 16 | fiction | {
"author": "Lewis Shiner",
"title": "Talking Dog",
"url": "http://manybooks.net/pages/shinerlother07tommy_and_the_talking_dog/0.html"
} | "If you can answer three questions," the dog said, "you can wear the magic shoes."
Tommy looked up and down the deserted street. "Did you ... say something?"
"That's right. Didn't you hear me?" It was a gruff voice, with just a trace of an English accent, and it was definitely coming out of the dog.
"You're a dog." In fact it was a huge, fat bulldog, with big flaps of skin hanging off the sides of its face. From where it sat, on the front steps of the abandoned motel, it looked Tommy straight in the eye.
"That's correct," the dog said.
Tommy stared hard at the dusty windows of the motel office. "This is a trick, right? There's a TV camera back there and you want to make me look stupid."
"No tricks, Tommy. Just three questions."
"C'mon," Tommy said. He deepened his voice. "Sit up." The dog stared at him. "Roll over. Play dead."
"Cut the crap, Tommy. Do you want the shoes or not?"
"Let me see 'em."
The dog shifted its weight to one side, revealing a battered pair of red Converse All-Stars. "Yuck," Tommy said. "Those are gross."
"Maybe," the dog said, "but they're magic."
"What are the questions?"
"Which of the following presidents died in office? Lincoln, McKinley, F.D.R.?"
"C'mon. They all did. That's the same dumb question they use when they're trying to sell you a free portrait on the telephone."
"Which weighs more, a pound of feathers or a pound of lead?"
"They both weigh a pound. This is stupid. Next you're going to ask me who's buried in Grant's Tomb."
The dog narrowed its eyes. "Have you done this before?"
"Ulysses S. Grant," Tommy said. "Lemme see the shoes."
They were just his size and felt pretty good, even though they were scuffed up and the metal things were gone out of the side vents. "I don't feel any different," Tommy said.
"You need the shoes to look for the treasure," the dog said.
"What treasure?"
"When you're wearing the shoes, you can open the doors of the motel rooms." | When did the dog show Tommy the shoes? | Temporal_order | [
"not enough information",
"after telling Tommy what the shoes can do",
"after refusing to do dog tricks",
"after asking Tommy three questions"
] | 2 |